


Polka Dot Dress

by AngelAxexinf



Category: SW: TCW, Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, LGBT, Transgender, im not dead i swear, since there's like nothing for you guys, this is for all the transgender fans of SW, trans OC, trans clone, tw transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelAxexinf/pseuds/AngelAxexinf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A social pariah for feeling like a woman instead of a man, Yousa is forced to go through life as a clone who's constantly tormented by both her squad and the war she's losing faith in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

79's is packed full of clones, a few Twi'lek servers weaving in and out of the bodies and serving drinks. With two companies on leave and this bar being the closest to base, it was bound to be overflowing with troopers who wanted to spend time with their brothers before going back to battle.

The building itself seems to vibrate with the strength of the music from whatever pop song was playing over the speakers. A few clones who were drunk enough not to feel shame were dancing as best they could (which wasn't good at all) in the middle of the space in front of the bar, trying to get some of the servers and others clones to join them. Soon enough the buzzing bar space was a dance party and drinks were spilling. A cup slips from a drunken clone's fingers and, still being drunk, he tries to sweep up the shards into his helmet to throw them out. It takes a few people to get him to stop.

Yousa watches all of this happen from her place at one of the bar's tables, sitting back into the plush fake leather seats. Thus far, she hadn't touched her drink and didn't plan to.

"Hey, brother!" Cutter launches himself into the booth, knocking into Yousa and spilling his drink everywhere. Giggling, he wipes it off with his hand and sits on the spill. "Nobody'll see it this way!" he whispers loudly. Smiling, he leans back and levels a look at Yousa, putting a boot on her thigh. "How ya been, bro?"

Either Cutter doesn't notice her grimace or he just doesn't say anything. It's hard to tell. "I was thinking of heading out, actually," Yousa says, finally taking a sip of her drink. It's cold on her lips but warms her throat.

Another clone—Ro—climbs on the seat to collapse next to Yousa, idly tugging on strands of her hair. "Why'd you bleach it? It's gonna be all dry and frizzy…" he says. He yanks the band off of Yousa's bun and starts messing with her hair.

"Hey—knock it off!" Yousa swats his hand away and snatches the band back. She stands to leave but realizes she'd have to try and step over Cutter or Ro in order to actually make it out. Her aggravation rises and she groans out loud.

"Where ya headed to, Yousa?" Ro asks, tapping her leg.

"You gonna try on some skirts again?" Cutter smirks. "Or is it gonna be a dress like last time?"

Dread rises in Yousa's stomach and her insides curl in both anger and fear. "I'm just taking a walk," she grinds out, making to force herself past Cutter.

"Want me to come with you? I'll tell you if your butt looks big in anything and zip up your dresses for you." Cutter and Ro roar with laughter, falling over themselves and pushing the table out of the way.

Yousa manages to squeeze past Cutter, her skin on fire. Why'd they have to bring up that day every chance they got? She'd been enjoying herself until Cutter brought to light one of the most embarrassing days of her life.

"Where ya goin', brother? The party's over here!" A heavily drunk clone tries to drag Yousa over to the swarming mass of people in front of the bar.

"Yousa's gonna buy a dress!" Cutter crows, and he yells it louder when he sees the look of horror on her face. A group of clones nearby laughs, gravitating toward their table until Yousa is nearly surrounded.

"Why're you buyin' dresses?" A blue-haired clone asks. He narrows his eyes at Yousa's body. "Can't fit it over yer armor. Don't see why you'd need it…"

"'Nless you got a big one…" another adds. He starts laughing at the image of a massive dress on a clone.

"It's cause he thinks he's a girl!" Cutter throws an arm over Yousa's shoulder. "Ain't that right, Yousa? You wanna get a pretty dress and yer makeup and kiss all the boys—"

That earns a loud row of laughter from the group of clones surrounding them. One cups his hands over his chest to mimic breasts. "How do I look, boys?" He starts sashaying and doing what he thought was a woman's walk. "You want some?"

Yousa can't take any more. Throwing Cutter off of her, she storms away, her face aflame and blood boiling. As she shoves her way through the crowd, not bothering to stop when she nearly knocks a server over, she can hear Cutter tell everyone about when she tried on skirts and thought the squad wasn't watching. Yousa wants to throw up.

Outside, the air is much cooler. There are small groups of clones gathered in bunches near the entrance. One erupts into laughter and Yousa stays away from them, huddling by the edge of light cast from and outdoor bulb.

"Hey there, bud," a clone says. Yousa's about to tell them to fuck off when they speak again. "You were the one from that scene inside. You alright?"

Yousa looks up and first notices the clone's hair, which is shoulder-length, wavy, and dark at the top but blue-green towards the end. And then she notices the…eyeliner? How'd he manage that? "As fine as I'll ever be." This wasn't the first time it'd happened. The next day her squad either pretended it didn't happen or "apologized".

The clone gives Yousa a sympathetic look. "Well, come on. Let's walk—you said you were gonna take a walk, and you don't look like you wanna go back in there," he says at Yousa's look. He takes two steps forward and turns to beckon Yousa when she doesn't move.

Yousa reluctantly follows, watching the stranger's hair bounce with his steps. He caches a glimpse of his helmet, where "She/Her" is written in bright red aurebesh on the side. "What's your name?"

"Dusty" is the reply, and he keeps walking. "Yours is Yousa, right?"

"Yeah."

Silence. Yousa still doesn't know where she's being led.

"Does Dusty…mean something, in another language?" she asks, trying to find the best way to ask the questions she wants to. "Did you get it from someone, or—"

"This about what's on my bucket?" Dusty spins around but isn't frowning. In fact, he's smiling. "The 'she/her'."

Yousa doesn't quite know what to say. "Uh, yeah. Why did you put that?"

"'Cause I'm a woman."

Oh.

Dusty says it so simply that Yousa doesn't respond for a second.

"You're like me," she blurts. She flinches and can feel panic crawl under her skin. "I-I mean, not that you're like me, because I don't—"

"You're female too?" Dusty looks like she's barely containing excitement, although the only things on her face are raised eyebrows and a slight smile. "Is that why you were trying on those skirts? You're a woman too?"

Yousa feels the guilt clogging her chest. "I-I don't know about that, I just…I don't know." She deflates a little. Looking away, Yousa rubs her thumb against a stray paint mark on her belt. She weighs options in her mind: either tell Dusty the weird thing about her or deny everything and hope she doesn't tell Cutter or Ro this conversation ever existed.

She risks it. "I'd like to be a woman…I-I think I am one, but my squad says it's just some weird thing about me, that it'll go away eventually and I'll be norm—"

"Your squad is wrong," Dusty cuts in fiercely. The lines that formed between her brows deepen and her mouth twists into a scowl. "You're just fine, Yousa. There's nothing wrong with you and it is completely okay to be a woman, understand?"

Yousa doesn't say anything for a long, long moment. "Are you sure?" she asks. Parts of her are warring with Dusty's passionate words and she doesn't know how to feel about them. Was it really normal? Yousa is a clone, and clones are biologically male—unless she was born female, which she doubted.

Dusty sees the look on Yousa's face and purses her lips. Without a word, she grabs her hand and pulls her with such strength Yousa has no choice but to follow, although she protests loudly.

"Where are we going? Hey slow dow—where are you taking me?" Yousa grunts as the grip on her hand reaches painfully crushing levels. "You're hurting me!" The grip lessens but Dusty doesn't so much as slow down.

"We're going to have fun, Yousa."

"What—"

"You're squad doesn't know what they're talking about. There's nothing wrong with you trying on those skirts, Yousa." They finally pull up to a clothing store that's open for whatever reason.

Yousa manages to pull her hand free. Standing outside the door, she eyes the mannequins in the window. "What time is it?"

"Probably around midnight." And Dusty yanks her inside.

The interior is well lit, with a women's, men's and kid's section of clothing. It isn't large, but there's a fair amount of clothing. There are signs pointing to changing rooms towards the back.

Dusty leads the way and Yousa follows like an obedient child, trying to figure out what Dusty is plucking off racks so confidently. She heads to the changing rooms and shoves half the armful of clothing at Yousa. "Here, try these on. If you need something, just tell me; I'll be in the stall right next to yours."

"Wait, what am I doing, exactly?" Hopefully not what she thought it was.

Dusty faces Yousa and looks her in the eye. "You need to be comfortable with this part of you, Yousa," Dusty says. "It's alright saying you're a woman even if other people try to tell you otherwise." Her shoulders sag and she sighs. It's a moment before she says anything. "I was in the same position you're in, ya know," she says. "I didn't know if feeling like I was a woman was normal or acceptable or not. But…" Dusty grabs Yousa's free hand and squeezes it affectionately. "I realized that I am who I am, Yousa. It's okay for me to be a woman even though I'm a clone—and it's okay for you, too. Screw what your squad says."

Yousa is so touched she doesn't know what to say. A flower blooms in her chest and spreads all through her limbs till her whole body is warm and light-feeling. "My general is supportive of me…" she says. "She's one of two people I know doesn't judge me for feeling like a woman."

Dusty beams, her smile stretching even to her hair, which Yousa swears is happier-looking, somehow. "You've got friends! Now try on this skirt before I take it and wear it myself." She gives a playful shove towards the stall and rushes into her own.

Yousa stares at the clothing in her hands. How did Dusty know what would be her size? Carefully, she places the clothing on the chair in the stall and strips, standing in just her boxer briefs in front of the mirror. She selects a skirt and tries it on, admiring the flowiness of it.

"Show me what you have on!" Dusty's head pops up above the divider. She must have been standing on the chair. "Yousa, you have to put a shirt on."

"Which one?" Yousa pokes through the pile, half of which has since fallen to the floor.

"Um…that one! With the stripes!" Dusty points and disappears behind her divider again. "Tell me when you're done!"

Yousa puts the shirt on and tucks it in, examining herself in the full-length mirror. She turns, eyeing her outfit from all angles. There's a banging on her door.

"Lemme see!"

Reluctantly, Yousa opens the door and presents herself to an eager Dusty. "How do I look?"

Dusty smiles. "I really like it, Yousa. Purple is a good color for you." She grabs her by the shoulders pulls her out to the multiple sets of mirrors in the main viewing area. "Tell me your favorite part of it."

Yousa examines herself in the mirror. The black-and-grey striped shirt has sleeves that reach her elbows and a v-neck. "I like she shirt." It would reveal cleavage if she had breasts. "I think I look good in patterns like this. And the skirt has pockets."

Dusty claps. "Great! Go try on something else now. Meet me out here."

The pair tries on clothing and judges each other's outfits for what feels like the next two hours. Yousa relaxes and gets more adventurous with her outfits, although she never tries on the strapless things that Dusty has. Yousa twirls when the skirt she has allows it, admiring everything about every article of clothing she picks out (except for one particularly horrid grey turtleneck with a bantha on it).

They take pictures with their helmets and, although the images are washed out, they manage to capture some of the very bright colors in Dusty's leggings or Yousa's skirts.

Dusty, now in a miniskirt and leggings, sits on the floor outside Yousa's dressing room. "If we see each other again, you wanna try this out again? Hopefully it'll be during the day, when there are more stores open."

"I'd love to," Yousa says, and she means it.

Dusty grins, showing all her teeth. "Maybe next time we can—" She gasps without warning and launches herself from the floor, rushing between the racks to the opposite end of the store.

Yousa rushes after her, tripping on a stand and nearly crashing to the ground. "Dusty wait!" she stage whispers. When she catches up to her friend, she looks around. "What are you looking for?"

Dusty points at the mannequin on display. "That dress was made for you."

The dress has thin straps and it's red with white polka dots. The skirt flares out a bit and the whole thing is very girly looking, with a rather large bow in the back. It is backless, as well.

Dusty begins to drag the mannequin down and wrestle the dress off it while Yousa panics at the side, hissing that they weren't allowed to do that and that they'd be kicked out of the store if she didn't stop.

Back at the changing rooms, Dusty is so excited she forgets that Yousa can actually dress herself and tries to rip the clothing off her. "You have to try this, it was made for you—hurry up hurry up hurry up!" When Yousa finally manages to get a strap up, Dusty gasps.

"What? What's wrong?" Yousa tries to turn to look in the mirror, but Dusty stops her.

"I will be right back, you hear? Don't turn around!" And she runs away.

Yousa stands still, barefoot in her stall and fiddling with the dots on her dress. When Dusty comes back she's shoved into the chair. "Don't move while I do this. It'll just be a second—"

"Is that make up?"

"You'll look amazing, trust me! Now close your eyes." Dusty places the items on the floor and gently tilts her head towards the light.

"Where'd you get all that from?" There was no way she could have paid for it.

There's a beat of silence as Dusty rubs something against Yousa's cheekbones. "The makeup section," she answers.

Yousa's eyes fly open. "You took the—"

"Shhh! I'm just borrowing them for now. Please close your eyes, I don't want to mess this up." She rubs something against Yousa's eyes lids.

As she endures being stabbed in the eyes with mascara wands and eyeliner pencils, Yousa's mind wanders. She imagines the other dresses she'd seen on display. There was a blue one with flowers that she'd been really interested in before Dusty had assaulted the mannequin. Yousa opens her eyes to blink some makeup out of them and catches sight of a pair of white boots passing by.

"Done!" Dusty proclaims, dropping the mascara. She pauses. "What's wrong?"

Fear creeps into Yousa's hands, crawling up her veins until she's chilled to the bone and shaking. "I think there's a clone here," she whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from the door. Any second, Cutter or Ro or another of her squad members could burst through the door and see her in a dress that didn't fit properly with piles of women's clothing all over the floor. Yousa's stomach begins to twist and curl violently.

"Wait here." Without hesitation, Dusty stands and practically storms out of the stall. Yousa remains by herself in her anxiety, pulling on the end of her braid. Dusty reappears. "Don't worry, it was just a woman with terrible fashion sense," she says, smiling. "Oh, you've messed your braid up. Here, lemme fix that for you."

Yousa waits patiently as Dusty rebraids her hair, feeling the adrenaline melt out of her body and leave her slightly breathless. She doesn't know what she would have done if it had been Cutter or Ro—cried, probably. She wasn't sure if she would have been able to take the abuse from them.

"Come on, you're going to check yourself out and tell me your favorite parts." Dusty leads her by hand to the set of mirrors in the main viewing area while her other hand hovers over Yousa's eyes. "Are you ready?"

She is less than ready. "Mhm," Yousa says instead. Her nerves begin acting up again.

"Alright…open!"

Yousa didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what she saw. The polka dot dress Dusty had chosen reaches her knees and flares out at her waist. She had make up, and it wasn't as bad or amateurish as anything she'd tried to do on herself. Her lips were pink and she had dark eye shadow on.

She felt as pretty as she looked.

"How do you like it?" Dusty pops up over Yousa's shoulder. At some point, she'd changed her clothes and was wearing the aqua blue dress Yousa had been interested in.

"I love it." And it's the truth. Yousa twirls and can't contain her giggle as her dress flares out up around her thighs. "But the top doesn't fit quite right." She glances down and looks right at her nipples.

"I'm gonna stuff it—"

"No you're not."

"Then at least let me help you find a way to get it to fit better." And without waiting for any sort of response, Dusty dashes off to the women's underwear section.

While she's gone, Yousa examines herself in the mirror, trying her best to get a view of herself from all angles. Her muscles don't quite go with the daintiness of the dress, but there were plenty of women who were muscular, so she isn't very bothered. Making sure no one is around, Yousa runs up to the mirrors to get a better look at her makeup. The blush Dusty used puts a rosy glow on her cheeks. Yousa admires the detail of the eyeliner (how'd she get it so sharp?) a woman heading into a changing room walks by.

"You look really nice," she says before heading in. Yousa is too stunned to respond in time, so she just squeals to herself and hope the woman knows how much she appreciated the compliment.

"I'm back!" Dusty proclaims. In her hands are two boxes of shoes and two other things Yousa can't identify.

"What's that?" Yousa points to the black thing.

"It's a bralette."

"A wha—"

"It'll help fill in the dress!" Dusty thrusts the black bralette at Yousa. "And here are shoes for you. We're going out."

Yousa accepts the item but hesitates. "Where are we going? What if someone sees me?"

"No clone is gonna glance at you twice because you'll look like a regular woman going out for a party or something. Trust me." Yousa stoops and puts on the dark blue flats she picked out for herself. "I'm cool with the store owner since I essentially advertise his products and, you know, fight for freedom and whatnot." She laughs at her joke. "Here, put this on and meet me at the front when you're done."

Yousa looks at the black flats, simple with a white band at the front. The bralette looks like it was meant to be a bra for women who weren't ready for the commitment. It's slightly padded and lacy.

Yousa eventually appears at the front. "Who's gonna take care of our armor?"

"I have a buddy." And that's all she says as she leads Yousa by the hand down the sidewalk.

The pair spends what seems like hours walking around Coruscant, bar hopping (without actually drinking much) and visiting various clubs and outlets. They buy some candy but not much else simply because they don't have the money. As they move on, Yousa slowly relaxes more and more, until she's comfortable talking to people and isn't as bothered by whatever lingering look she gets.

Dusty's posture deflates when she looks at the time. "We have to head back now. I think we missed curfew." That would mean a demerit and shining astromechs for a week, not something she is fond of.

Yousa sighs. "This was fun," she says. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to do this again, but…thanks, Dusty. I'll look for you if we're both on leave again."

Dusty pulls Yousa into an impossibly tight hug. "This was great. Just remember you're not weird or wrong for who you are. You're a woman and that's something to celebrate." She squeezes tighter before letting go and finding the way back to the store.

It's still open, which suggests it might be a twenty-four hour clothing shop. They remove their makeup and return the dresses to their respective mannequins, which had been standing naked since they left.

Yousa fingers the fabric of the polka dotted dress. She's back in her armor again and she knows there's leftover makeup on her face. After an unsuccessful attempt at removing the eyeliner without smudging it, Yousa decided it was best just to let it wear off. It was too smudged. "Wish I could keep this…" she says to herself, sad. "It's so pretty."

Dusty throws an arm over her shoulders. "Maybe when you come back here, it'll be waiting for you."

Yousa snorts rather loudly. "Yeah right. After all that 'advertising' we did, it's not gonna be here when I come back." It was saddening, but the truth. "I have to go now. My squad's gonna come looking for me."

Dusty nods and gives Yousa another hug. "Bye."

"Bye."

OoOoO

"Where have you been?" Cutter asks, smirking. "Trying on some skirts? Wearing makeup?"

"Wouldn't put it past him," Ro adds from his bunk. There are a few scattered snickers.

Yousa lays in her own bed, in too good a mood and too confident to let two asses and their asinine comments get to her. "Shut up, both of you. I'm trying to sleep."

"You hear that, Ro? The princess needs her beauty sleep," Cutter says mockingly. "Whatever you say, Your Highness." He rolls over and doesn't say anything past that, which Yousa is glad for.

She eventually nods into sleep herself, the perfect polka dot dress and Dusty's bright smile at the forefront of her mind.


	2. Chapter 2

_I know it’s been roughly 12,000 years since I’ve uploaded in general, but here’s the second chapter of Polka Dot Dress!_

_The only reason this chapter and the following chapters exist is because I forgot to categorize this as “completed” and people started asking for a second one…_

* * *

 

Yousa stares at the bottom of the bunk above her for what feels like hours—blissfully quiet, smooth hours. She doesn’t mind the silence one bit—actually relishes in it—and is particularly peeved when Cutter wakes up.

“Up, brothers!” he yells, stifling a yawn with one hand. Yousa doesn’t miss the pointed look she gets from him when he says “brothers”. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us—”

“Watch as absolutely nothing happens…” Ro mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. He scratches at the dry saliva on his cheek. “Any orders for today?”

“Just to get up and get dressed. We’ll go through our motions as usual and see what happens from there,” Cutter says these things as if they are certain—which he is bound to do anyway. He firmly believes his title of sergeant gives him the right to state facts when he doesn’t have information.

“Maybe the General’ll let us take a walk about Coruscant,” Fortaj says from his end of the barracks. He scratches his back as he goes through his morning routine of making his bed.

More voices begin to join together in a chorus that is nothing short of a dull roar (to Yousa). She remains in bed however, maintaining her tradition of being the last to leave the room. From a bunk nearby hers, two squadmates talk about the fun they had at 79’s, only occasionally sparing glances at her. When they catch Yousa looking, they lower their voices and make a show of pretending not to talk about her.

She can’t gauge how much it bothers her. She’s used to it, but knowing that she’s surrounded by people who volleyball whispers about her behind her back always triggers the same feeling of dread and ostracism that seem to hang over her like a cloud. The feeling of impending humiliation is almost enough to keep her in bed.

“Hey, Yousa,” Cutter says, passing by her bunk. “You gonna shower or sit there and mope all day?”

She doesn’t respond; she doesn’t need to. Saying something won’t bring her any good, remaining quiet _might_ keep her safe.

“What are you, mute?” And the barrage begins.

“Did I really have to respond?” Yousa asks, her face calm despite her quickly fraying nerves. She can _feel_ Cutter’s body as he moves to a new position behind her. Every part of her wants to just clear out and spend time alone, maybe take a walk about Coruscant (alone) but almost any move she makes could be seen as an attack or “insubordination” by Cutter and Ro.

“It’s _polite_ ,” Cutter says, his voice dropping in pitch, “to answer your sergeant’s question, Yousa.”

There’s a weighty beat of silence that seizes her lungs. Anyone who isn’t still asleep watches intently to see what happens next, either with excited anticipation or wary caution.

Ro butts in before Cutter can say anything. “Bet he’s still mad from last night,” he says with a smirk and a bare glance toward Yousa. He digs through his trunk for his shower things, speaking into the slowly growing gap. “Always gets like that whenever we mention—”

Yousa snaps, her head whipping up to Ro’s back. “How about you don’t mention it, then?”

“Aw, come _on_ , Yousa.” Cutter’s sadistic smile is growing. She can see the anticipation in his eyes as he lumbers towards her, feigning casualness. “Maybe you shouldn’t be like that all the time, you know? Try laughing for once!” He tries to put his hand on her shoulder, but she slaps it away; he isn’t deterred in the slightest.

It’s routine now. Yousa, after weeks of self-imposed solitary confinement, decides to go out to a bar. Her squad tracks her down and proceeds to humiliate her, bringing up every time she was caught trying on a skirt or eyeing women’s clothing or perusing a women’s fashion magazine. Every. Damn. Time. She’s used to the abuse but still dreads every second she has to be around her squad. She’d tried transferring squads, but she needed a “reasonable cause” to move and “bullying” was not on that list.

“This mad over a little teasing, Yousa?” Cutter’s smirk burns through her scalp. “It’s just a joke, buddy.” He tries to touch her again in fake camaraderie.

Yousa’s had enough. She whirls around at him, this time not hesitating to use extra force to slap his hand away. “You two are just upset you got drunk off your asses last night—”

Ro tries to interject. “Woah woah woah, Yousa—”

She’s undeterred. “—and General Dei ripped you a new one in the middle of 79’s!” She’s standing now, backing away from her bunk and away from the group that had formed around her. “How do you think that would make her look, Sarge?” She shoots a scathing look at Cutter. “One of her own men screwing up _yet again_ —”

“That is _enough_ , Yousa!” Cutter roars. “You have absolutely no right to speak to your commanding officer like that.”

They each glare at each other in what is, to Yousa, pure hatred. Slowly, carefully, Cutter steps around the bunk. Yousa’s blood pounds with every step he takes towards her, her vision tunneling on the dangerously cool look on his face.

Cutter got right in Yousa’s face; she could smell his unbrushed teeth when he spoke. “You are just an insubordinate _private_ , Yousa,” he said, voice low, but not low enough to keep everyone else out. “You’re a man who thinks he’s a woman—”

“You’ve been up for hours but you’re still nursing that hangover,” Yousa said, fighting to keep her trembling body from affecting her voice. “You’re going to walk into the mess and try to act like nothing happened last night, and you’ll try to kiss the General’s ass even when she actively ignores you.”

Cutter is enraged; his chest is heaving, his fists tightening and relaxing with increasing speed.

He’s going to punch Yousa, she knows it. Good. Let him. Maybe physical violence would be enough to get her a squad transfer.

For the first time, Ro actually looks scared. His eyes flicker frantically between Yousa and Cutter before he cuts in as best he can. “We...we better go before all the showers are taken and the hot water’s gone.”

Cutter doesn’t move and neither does Yousa. Ro’s nerves are palpable now. He visibly fidgets as he tries again to get Cutter’s attention. “S-Sir? The showers—”

“I heard you the first time!” Cutter snaps, barely sparing a glance back at Ro. Ro flinches.

Yousa is the first to move. She ducks around Cutter and makes a show of digging through her bunk for her shower things, knowing she’ll be the last one to leave the room anyway. The squad eventually falls back into the regular morning routine. Chatter rises and falls in clumps about the room, and the last of the men who were sleeping wake up, dragging themselves into the growing noise.

Yousa keeps her head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone—not like it mattered. They all refused to talk to her even on a good day. Someone grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks hard, violently pulling her head back. Yousa feels something pop and cries out in pain, but when she turns around, the ass who’d done it had already blended into the group.

She rubs her neck, glaring at the retreating backs of clones. She wants— _needs_ —that squad transfer. “Chronic hair pulling”, unfortunately, was yet another category that wasn’t listed. Yousa barely contains her pained groan. Falling back on her rear, she covers her face and inhales sharply. _Don’t get angry. Don’t get mad. That’s what they want. Doing something only makes this worse._ But doing nothing never helped her situation. Yousa releases her breath and takes another one, and then another and another. Her attempts at calming herself down only serve to make her more stressed because they’re not working. Frustration makes her eyes sting and her throat close up.

 _No! Don’t cry. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t—_ Yousa’s next breath is too shaky for her comfort, but she can’t help herself when her breathing starts to grow irregular. She presses her lips shut and forces a sharp, heavy inhale through her nose. She teeters, first leaning towards cleaning herself up and heading toward the showers and wallowing like a child in her self-pity.

Finally, she’s calm. Yousa is sure her eyes are red, but doesn’t care either way. She flips up the latch on her trunk and digs through the bottom for a band to tie her hair back. Now to just pretend like nothing happened, like she wasn’t about to throw a fit over hair pulling and—

“Uh, Yousa? You alright there...?”

Yousa straightens up so quickly she’s sure something else in her spine gets dislodged. She hadn’t thought that someone else was still in the barracks, yet here he was. looking down on her from at a slightly awkward angle.

Fortaj carries a towel and shampoo under his arm and wears only the lower half of his armor. He’s looking at Yousa strangely, and how she suddenly feels like a child. She shouldn’t have expected to throw a fit over _hair pulling_ of all things and not have someone notice. Her eyes are red, aren’t they? Just her luck.

“You alright?” Fortaj backs up a step so his head isn’t bent at a ninety-degree angle. He’s still giving her strange looks.

Yousa realizes she might be inadvertently glaring at him. She sniffs. “Yeah,” she answers, avoiding eye contact. “I’m fine. Just dandy.” That would produce the opposite of the desired effect, but right then and there, she doesn’t care. She all but rips the rest of her shower things out of her trunk and and stands abruptly.

“I heard about what happened last night at 79’s,” he says, unfazed.

Yousa freezes on instinct more than anything else. She can already feel her defensive walls climbing, building up around her and most definitely displaying themselves on her face. Yousa’s jaw tightens with the sour memories from the night prior, how she was humiliated (not for the first time) in public. She wants to throw up all over again.

“It wasn’t fair, what happened to you,” he says. He meets Yousa’s eyes only for a brief second. “That shouldn't have happened.” The final glance he gives her isn’t quite piteous, but it’s damn near it. Yousa isn’t sure how she feels. Fortaj doesn’t wait for a response and politely pushes past her, the door to the barracks opening and closing with a soft _shush_.

Yousa stands there a little dumbstruck, the walls slowly dissipating until all she can feel is a strange emptiness inside her. Empty and exposed, oddly. The sympathy from Fortaj had been unexpected, to say the least—and not because he never speaks.

It’s been a long, long time since someone last tried to support Yousa.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts, pulling herself back to the present. Depending on how long she’s spent spaced out, the showers should be less congested. She doesn’t necessarily mind the nudity, it’s the chance of rubbing into someone when they’re stark-naked that bothers her.

It’s a short trip to the showers. Along the way, some clones returning from training jog past her, shouting and play-shoving each other. So she won’t get a quiet shower. Damn.

Two shinies, one too timid to confront her directly, asked a question about some seating situation—or maybe it was about a social taboo? She’s long since forgotten and doesn’t care enough to try and recall it again.

When Yousa enters the showers, she’s pleasingly surprised to see that it’s not that crowded. There are some clones armoring up and some others undressing, but otherwise there are only a couple of showers actually running.

Yousa heads to a corner stall where the left barrier is the wall itself and the right is guarded by a waist-height tiled wall. She turns the handle, letting the warm water run over her hair before rubbing shampoo in. She goes through her regular motions: shampoo, rinse, expensive tropical deep conditioner, shower, rinse everything off. By the time she’s done, she smells like foreign fruits and has mostly forgotten the incident only thirty minutes prior.

But Fortaj’s oddly kind words stick to the back of her head and bug her for over an hour afterwards. Yousa chews her tasteless breakfast and ignores Cutter’s inane and patently false story as she considers what this could mean for Fortaj’s position on her...condition.

It’s clear the rest of the squad thinks her abnormal for it. Fortaj is the only clone on probably the whole ship who has yet to say anything. Yousa knows that General Dei and some of her lady Jedi friends support her, too, but until she can hang out with them again, she’s on her own.

“You alright there, Yousa?” Yousa looks up to see Jukebox eyeing her from the other end of the table. He’s leaning forward in his seat and close to knocking a mug of caf off the table. “You’ve been poking your food for a while. Are you gonna eat it?” Jukebox is the newest member of their squad and probably isn’t aware of the social strata of the squad. Simply put: Cutter and Ro at the top, Yousa at the bottom. This is mirrored in their permanent seating arrangements at the table.

In response to his question, Yousa downs her oatmeal and starts chugging her lukewarm caf. Jukebox huffs and munches his toast angrily.

“Hey, Yousa, a word?” a voice above her asks. She looks up and meets General’s Dei’s violet eyes and smiling face.

The whole table clatters to a stop—in fact, the entire mess hall slows down its rapid eat-and-talk tempo to stare and mass-eavesdrop on the conversation Yousa and the general were about to share.

With the knowledge that the whole mess hall was not so subtly watching them like hungry pack animals, Yousa shrinks in her seat. She can _feel_ Cutter’s and Ro’s glare from the other end of the table. The general doesn’t seem to notice.

Jukebox’s leftover shiny enthusiasm shines through. “S-Sir!” He chokes on whatever he’s swallowing and sits up in his seat, turning his wide eyes on General Dei. “Good morning, sir!” If he had a tail, it would be wagging violently right now.

“Good morning, uh…” she pauses, her read lips twisting in embarrassment. “Sorry, what was your—”

“Jukebox, sir!” he supplies. If he doesn’t quiet down soon, the attention of the mess will _really_ be on them. Yousa isn’t sure he can handle that. “This is my squad.” And he motions to them as if it weren’t already obvious.

The general’s already trying to turn her attention back to Yousa. “Yousa, I want you to help me bring in the new shines—you know, show ‘em around and get them used to, well, _us_. You up for it?”

 _Up for it?_ Is she up for it? Does General Dei even realize that she is talking to Yousa, a member of the bottom caste in the social hierarchy that dominated the 686th? Does General Dei realize what reigning in shinies will do to Yousa’s reputation? How that could permanently change the way everyone’s interaction is formatted? Reigning in the shinies is normally reserved for only the most socially desirable or highest ranking clones—so members of Crusade Squad or Wonder Squad, because they are both.

Yousa isn’t either of those. She’s just Yousa, the clone that thinks she’s a woman, the clone who’s hated by her own squad.

She breaks into a wide smile. “Of course, sir,” she says. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

* * *

  _Okay, so I have a general idea for a plot, but I would also love other ideas and/or suggestions for what to do with Yousa._

_As always, reviewers get a cookie!_


	3. Shinies Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new batch o' kids is introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to the first hate review for this fic, written by somebody named Panda.
> 
> Your hate fuels me. Keep it comin’ baby ;)

Yousa follows slightly behind and to the right of General Dei on their way to the main hangar bay. The general fills her in as they get closer and closer.

"It's not that many-just one squad," she says.

"So just six clones?" It's such a small number of clones that Yousa wonders if they were ever really in need of them.

"Yep. Just graduated too. Although, the pilot told me that they weren't too happy about coming to us on account of our...rather _strong_ reputation." She laughs, however, and lets Yousa through the door first.

Yousa doesn't blame them. Being known for being the loudest, being the most violent, having the most tattoos per square centimeter of skin, swearing the most, and have very little sense of rank or regulation doesn't bode well for newcomers or anyone wanting to audition in.

"With you showing them the ropes, they should get used to us in no time," the general says, smiling.

Yousa can only nod nervously in return. Her mind is abuzz with nerves, her stomach doing as many twists and turns as it can pull off. Would they like her? What if the rumors about her got to them before she could? What if they thought she was weird?

The other half of her brain scoffs at her. So what if they hear any rumors? Shinies will believe anything and everything they hear as long as it's someone older than them, which is everyone.

The rumble of a gunship's engine pulls Yousa out of her inner turmoil. Lower wings on the ship come out, slowing its descent and eventually settling it on the durasteel ground. Yousa's gut tightens.

"I think they'll like you," General Dei says in an attempt to calm her nerves. "You're a nice lady, Yousa."

"Thanks, sir…" Yousa says absently. Her eyes follow as the ship settles, steam and exhaust blowing out of its ports. The door slowly creaks open (to Yousa) and six shadowy figures step in perfect formation off the ship. Their shiny, spanking new armor shines harshly in the hangar bay lighting.

General Dei beams. "Welcome to the 686th!" She steps towards them. "How as the trip?"

All six of them snap to an even firmer attention than they were in before. One that Yousa assumes is the leader speaks up for the group. "Smooth ride, sir. We had a great pilot flying us."

Yousa stands awkwardly to the side while the general and the shinies make small talk. She only just remembers that her hair isn't even in a bun-it's down in a ponytail dangling over her shoulder. She _also_ notices that one of the shinie's expressionless buckets is turned ever so slightly toward her. Were they all staring? Should he have gotten a haircut before now?

"Do you guys have names yet?" General Dei asks. "It's okay if you don't; I've taken to naming clones now."

"Don't worry sir, we do," one at the end of the line says. In a small moment of bravery, he steps forward. "I'm Trig, the medic."

And one by one, they all introduce themselves. Trig, who'd graduated at the top of his medic class (and who also seemed to enjoy bragging), Onlink, the techy ("You'll _love_ Ridge-he's basically our senior techy."), Poindex, the weapons expert, Miser, who sounds tired and like he doesn't want to be standing right now, Angel, who is very obviously the shy one, and Grey, the squad sergeant.

Yousa knows she's not going to remember any of their names.

"Yousa's here to show you guys around so you're not alone on your first day," Dei says, and she sidesteps and motions to Yousa.

"If you'll just follow me…" Yousa stammers (at least she thinks she does). "You'll learn your way around here pretty quick."

Twenty minutes into the tour and she can already tell who her favorites are.

Even with Trig's medic ranking, it's clear that he's the most talkative and that he enjoys talking about himself. For the first ten minutes, he'd bragged about his climbing and perching at the top of the medic's list grade- and performance-wise. When Miser asks how he is personality wise, Trig glares and shut up.

Angel hangs back during the duration of the first quarter, but Yousa had suspects that it is due to being aloof and not because he's shy. He seems to be growing his hair out; at the moment, it curls around his ears, and every once in a while he runs his fingers through it. Next to him is Onlink, who also could be named Chatterbox, he's so talkative. Onlink always has a question supplied for Yousa and Miser always has a sarcastic quip to Onlink's question. Onny (as they call him) doesn't seem to mind, however.

And that leaves Poindex. Poor Poindex...Yousa can already figure out why he's named so. Twice Yousa has had to explain a joke to him (to the chagrin of everyone else) and he's already expressed disdain for the battalion's tradition of taking the shinies out for their first round of drinks: "We should be going over what the 686th's routines are, or getting acquainted with our new brothers, or-you know what, can I just stay here?"

They all reply with "no".

Poindex sighs and mutters under his breath.

The group comes upon a group of elevators. "We're gonna take a trip down to the techy rooms," Yousa says, biting her lip.

"You look nervous," Grey says, looking between her and the elevators. "Don't like elevators, sir?"

"No, I just...don't know what mood the nerds are in today."

"'Nerds', sir?"

"That's what we call 'em."

Yousa punches the "down" button and waits for the doors to open. The group piles in.

"What are the techies like, sir?" Onlink asks.

"They're...quite a bunch," Yousa answers. She fiddles with her bun while she fishes for a better description. "They're not the kind of people to follow regs." That doesn't sound much better.

"How do you mean?" This is Miser that speaks up. "Like bringing civilians on board?"

That hasn't happened yet. "No, like being late to things, being too loud or rude, messing with the ship's firewalls _constantly_."

Onlink 'hmphs' quietly, judging for himself whether or not he'd like his new coworkers. "Will I like them, sir?"

"It won't matter to them, either way," Yousa says absently. A ding sounds and the doors open. The hallway is more or less exactly like the one they just exited, but the turns branch off differently. Onlink keeps the group from falling completely silent with his questions.

"How _exactly_ do they break regs, sir? Is it something I would need to report?" As if to make his question more punctual, he scoots to the front of the group.

"Don't go reporting any of them," Yousa warns. "You'll just end up being hated-and it's not like the report will get anywhere important if they catch wind of it."

He's still walking nearly parallel to Yousa, but he slows down a bit. "Are they at least nice?"

"Some of them." Yousa really does feel sorry for Onny. He seems like the kind of kid to make friends easily, and she isn't sure how the nerds would take to meeting a new shiny to deal with.

"How do they feel about clingy people?" It's Angel that speaks this time. He's still hanging out near the back.

Yousa purses her lips and doesn't answer.

"Shut up Angel. I am not clingy," Onlink snaps. He's met by a chorus of "yeahs" and "yes you are" and "That sounds like what a clingy person might say" (from Trig).

They finally come upon a set of doors. Inside, they can hear music playing, but none can make out the lyrics, if there are any. Onlink is eager to push the button to open the door but hesitates, looking to Yousa for permission to continue. Yousa nods.

The first thing any of them notices is that it's a medium-sized computer room and that the lights are off-reg number one has already been broken. The lights are _always_ supposed to be on in any room with multiple computer terminals. There's trash on the floor (another reg broken) and a z-6 rotary blaster that has no business being in there leaning against the wall (yet another standard regulation broken; no firepower above DC-15s allowed in the tech rooms).

None of them has even stepped into the room yet and already a minimum of three regulations were being disobeyed.

"Hey!" Yousa says above the music. "Hey guys! You've got company!" She can't quite keep the annoyance out of her voice.

Someone turns down the music and six pairs of eyes turn simultaneously to stare at them.

"You've got new kids," Yousa says, leading the suddenly timid shinies into the room.

"We got new shinies? How many?" This comes from a clone with hair that's cut into a strip on his head and light purple at the ends. He has piercings in his ears, his left eyebrow, and under his lip (another reg broken).

"Just the six," Yousa answers. "You're getting Onlink-Onny for short. He's-here, step forward, bud."

Onlink shuffles forward, one hand running through his standard haircut subconsciously. Even with just six clones in the room, there's a vast array of hair colors and styles, and some have tattoos on their faces or that just peek out of their neck of their shirts. Onny very clearly feels like he stands out for being plain. His eyes keep shifting between all the heads and even Angel's slightly longer hair.

"I'm Ridge," says the one with the strip hair. "That's Patcher, Milo, Dex, and Sir Grump over there is Goby." Ride motions to a clone sitting all the way in the corner. The lights still aren't on so no one can make out Goby's face. His back is turned to them, anyway.

"Shut the fuck up, Ridge," Goby says.

"Ignore him." Ridge scoots forward a bit on his office chair. "So basically we'll show you around and stuff, not that there's much to see, anyway. Goby will-"

"No."

" _I_ ," Ridge corrects himself, "will show you all the little nuances of this nook." He smiles, the only one to do so thus far. "I'm taking all of you out for ice cream later."

"Yousa tells me you guys break regs all the time," Onny says. "What is it, like not referring to General Dei as 'sir'."

Ridge smirks. "No, don't worry-we all just do drugs all the time, is all."

Poindex is the only one not to catch the sarcasm. "Drugs?" Panic quickly takes over his face. "Like illicit, _illegal_ , drugs?!"

Ridge can only stare. "Is he always like this?" Another chorus of yesses.

"What? What's going on?" Poindex looks at everyone.

Ridge sighs and rolls his eyes. "Take him wherever he's gotta go. Onlink, you'll be spending time with us, so you'd better get yourself acquainted." He gives Yousa a pointed look. "Bye now."

OoOoOoO

"That wasn't so bad," Angel says. He's now at the front of the group. "Where are we headed off to now?"

"We're gonna go to the medbay." Yousa groans internally. Being near the bowels of the ship, they were nowhere near the (main) medbay. They'd have to take the elevator up three or four levels.

"That's for me, right?" Trig asks, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

"You've heard about Cord?" He's nothing short of a legend in the GAR.

Yousa must have triggered something because Trig immediately jumps into an excited mess of hand motions and facial expression. "Heard about him? Everyone knows who he is-he would've taught a lesson to us as cadets if he wasn't busy all the time." Trig is absolutely elated to be meeting someone he absolutely idolizes. He pushes to the front of the group to "He's performed emergency surgeries while gunships were in _midflight_! He pulled an active bomb out of someone and-"

"Yeah, while we're on that," Yousa interrupts. "The guy who had the bomb in him is actually in this battalion, and under _no circumstances_ are you to talk about what happened to him. Or Cord."

Trig's face falls, his shoulders sagging a bit. "Not at all? But I wanted to know how-"

"Not. At. All."

Trig clearly gets the message but insists on raving about his idol. "He could've been a _commander_ , you know. He had all the right requirements: skills, smarts, organization, plus he was a great leader." He isn't quite looking at any of them anymore, talking more to himself than anyone else. "Now he's only the best and most famous medic in the GAR."

"From what I hear about Cord," Miser says, "he's not going to like you at all."

Trig shoots Miser a vicious glare. "How the hell would you know? You don't have any distinguishing skill, Miser."

Miser half shrugs a shoulder, already uninterested. "Nobody likes a kiss ass."

"Miser, cool it," Yousa says, interjecting. "Trig, look up; we're at the med bay."

Trig takes a deep breath. "You're gonna be here with me, right?" He gives Yousa an uneasy look. He's getting the same pre-meeting jitters that Onlink had.

Yousa gives him a pat on the shoulder. Without a word, she pushes him into the medbay (she still follows him, though).

There are only two people in there-one clone with green hair in two different shades, and another clone with the standard cut. Both have their backs to them.

The green-haired clone looks up first. "Hey, Cord. We've got company."

When Cord looks up, his odd-shaded eyes immediately shot to just over Yousa's shoulder before fully focusing on her. "What do we have here? The new shines?"

"Yep-you've got Trig here, ready to be taken under your wing."

Cord's face doesn't change from quiet neutrality. It's always been hard to tell what he's thinking. "You're Trig?" His eyes narrow just in the slightest.

Trig doesn't say anything for a second, and Yousa follows his line of sight to exactly what he's staring at-Cord's eyes, which are nearly a pale blue in color, the dark grey pupils almost blending in with their surroundings. He snaps himself out of his blatant confusion and shifts into even more blunt awe. "Y-Yes sir!" he stammers. "I'm Trig, the new medic." He's blinking rapidly and can't seem to stop fidgeting, poor kid.

The green-haired clone speaks up first. "Prize'll show you around and get you situated. Prize, get out here!"

A side door opens, and a medic with _slightly_ longer hair and mismatched eyes-one green, one brown-steps into the main triage room. He has a datapad in hand and doesn't immediately notice the extra bodies in the room. "Someone called my name?" he asked.

"You're gonna show the shinie around," the green-haired clone said. "I'm Murdo, by the way." He flashes a peace sign. "And that's Prize."

Prize finally looks up and his eyes set on the small group in front of him. "We got new shinies? When?"

"Just now-take Trig with you, show him around and stuff," Murdo says. "You'll finally have someone to talk to about your soap operas."

Prize gives Murdo a dirty look but beckons Trig forward nonetheless. Trig complies, but not without sending a longing look to Cord.

"So who's next?" Angel asks. He's starting to open up.

"We're gonna take Miser to the barracks, so he can claim his spot now." The barracks are closer than the hangar bays, where Angel would be going soon.

It's a short trip down some halls and through a few doors. The barracks are located furthest away from the rest of civilization, but they're near the mess, the gym/training rooms, showers, and the medical bay. Since it this area gets the most traffic, the whole area is called "The Commons".

There isn't much for Miser to do, and he seems both miserable and delighted about this. "So I just get to sit here and do nothing?" he asks, motioning to the bunk Yousa assumes he's chosen.

She genuinely can't tell how he feels about this. "Uh...yeah. You get to choose your bunk before anyone else-stay away from the vents."

Miser sucks his teeth but takes her advice, dragging his trunks from one bunk by the wall to another bunk. "How many others squads'll be here?"

"Just one other one. Don't worry, you probably won't get any snorers." Her humor is wasted on him. Yousa cocks her head to the door. "If you want to come with us-"

"I'm gonna take a nap." Miser plops down on his bunk.

"Miser!" Grey snaps. "Don't be rude."

He barely suppresses an eye roll. "I'm going to take a nap, _sir_." And he begins to undress.

"Ignore him," Grey huffs. Yousa was going to anyway. "The rest of that tour?"

The doors open with a _whoosh_. Yousa steps through, beckoning. "Continuing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would’ve released this earlier, but I got lazy. :/
> 
> Anyway, this is just a part one since I didn’t want to force all the little intros into one chapter. Part II should be here when...it gets here.


	4. Shinies Part II

Twenty minutes into the second part of the tour, Yousa is forced to throw Poindex with the Nerds because he just won’t shut up.

She’s figured out by now that he’s a little more than socially dense (“What does he mean by ‘pick up’ girls?”), but the kid must be immune to getting tired of hearing his own voice. Once Poindex notices that three of the people who tell him to be quiet the most are gone, the dams are opened.

“Regulation 33-12.1.2, Section A, Subsection C, states that clone troopers of our rank can’t stay out past--”

“Dammit, Poindex!” Angel snaps. It seems even he’s not impervious to being annoyed. “We all know about the regulations already.”

Poindex looks close to throwing a fit. His lips twist in a way that reminds Yousa of a child who didn't get the exact toy he wanted. “But Sergeant Yousa keeps trying to get us to break regs!”

“Bullshit,” Yousa snaps. And she’s not even a sergeant--she’s a private--but anything to keep them in line. All three of the shinies look at her in shock. Yousa sighs. “Sorry, I don’t mean to curse. You guys just need to learn to lighten up a little.”

“I have to take Poindex’s side on this,” Grey says, the first to recover. “We can’t break regs.”

“At least not now,” Angel says. “We could start dating.”

True to nature, Poindex has to fight this. “Aren’t civilian-clone relationships strictly prohibited?”

“To an extent, yes,” Yousa answers. Absently, she pulls on Poindex’s arm to keep him from travelling down a hall he wasn’t supposed to. 

“Haven’t you, uh…” Angel suddenly falters, stuttering over his words. “I-I mean this is kind of a sensitive question, but h-have you ever…”

Yousa only stares blankly. She stops walking, the whole group pausing with her. Yousa studies each of their faces individually. Poindex and Grey seem to know what Angel’s not saying; they’ve each conveniently found a wall to stare at. “Have I ever…?”

Grey starts squirming and manages to stare even harder at his wall. Yousa shoots him a glance, but that only makes him pointedly avoid eye contact even more. He fiddles with his belt, muttering something about not being used to how stiff the armor is.

Poindex, to his credit, doesn’t hesitate. “Have you ever had sex before?”

Yousa’s shock at the brazen question is evident. “What kind of--”

“H-He doesn’t mean that! Poindex shut the hell up!” Angel interjects, rushing to rectify the situation. 

Yousa can feel her face heating up, what is surely a nice red glow creeping from her neck up to her cheeks. Rising above her embarrassment, though, is indignation. She doesn’t mean to snap at the shinies, but she’s not about to divulge her nearly nonexistent sex life. “What kind of question--” 

“W-We didn’t mean anything by it, sir,” Grey apologizes, looking quite nervous himself. He’s caught between trying to calm Yousa down and firing daggers at Poindex, who’s now slowly backed away a few steps from the group. “He has no filter, sir--”

“We just wanted to know since some of the vets come back and talk about...it,” Poindex mutters bashfully. His fingers fret about his stomach. He chews the inside of his lip, noticeably ashamed but undeterred. “They say it’s one of the better parts about being a clone, that women sometimes take pity on you--” It’s clear that at this point, he has no clue what he’s talking about. “But I’m not sure if you have to pay or not…?”

Yousa throws a desperate look up to the ceiling. “Holy shit Poindex--”

Angel speaks up. “I guess he just thought this could be a man-to-older-man thing, you know?”

“Hey, don’t throw me under the bus,” Poindex says brusquely, rushing back to the group. “This was originally your--”

“It was a dumb question.” Grey starts walking past Yousa. “I’m sure you can get your answer from someone else, Dex.”

Poindex doesn’t fight the subtle accusation that the question is his. “I just thought this could be a brother-to-brother thing…” he muttered. 

An awkward silence settles on them. Yousa suddenly realizes just how bright the fluorescent lighting of the hall is and how it reflects mildly off the floors. The hall must have been mopped recently; it smells faintly of cleaner. A pair of clones passes them, staring in curiosity before quickly losing interest.

“We’re sorry, sir,” Grey says. Neither of the others speak up after him, so he lets his apology fall flat.

Yousa isn’t sure if they registered it (she highly doubts so) but she’d stopped trying to argue when Angel said “man-to-older-man”. Even with the bizarreness of the question and the subsequent mess of a situation, she couldn’t move herself passed the “man” comment. It’s taking everything in her not to just break down and explain her...situation, to them. Would it be worth the risk? The clones’ culture on Kamino was far from gendered, but how much “conditioning” had they gone through before they got to the 686th? Had they heard rumors?

“Sir? What’s wrong?”

“Stop. Stop that.” Yousa closes her eyes and exhales. 

Grey looks around, confused. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir--”

“With that.” Yousa fights down her temper. “Stop with the ‘sirs’ and everything, please.”

Grey’s confusion grows. He blinks for a moment and swallows, continuing. “But you’re higher ranking than us--”

So they call rank when using “sir” but not when asking about her sex life. Alright. Fine. 

Yousa adamantly shakes her head. “Nope. Doesn’t matter. Stop with the ‘sirs’.”

They all share glances but nonetheless, Grey agrees for them. “Alright, we’ll stop.” He sounds unsure but doesn’t push the subject.

Yousa takes another breath and runs her fingers through her hair. The bun that she’d taken time to make is now ruined, but at least she’s calmed down. “Alright, we’ll continue. Poindex, you’re going to the Nerds.”

Poindex makes a whiny noise and Grey sends him a “shut up now” glare. They form a semi-line behind Yousa as they head for the elevators. 

The whole ride down, Yousa can’t shake the face that Angel made out of her head. Even now, he’s looking at her strangely and doing a very poor job of hiding it. Yousa tries her best to ignore the growing twists in her stomach.

OoOoO

Yousa nothing short of throws Poindex at the Nerds, who are none too happy to have “that annoying fucking chatterbox” (Ridge) back with them. She barely stays long enough to hear their cries of dismay; she’s already back at the elevators with Grey and Angel in tow. They’re much quieter now that they don’t have anyone to yell at.

Angel has his bucket back on and seems to be engaged in conversation with someone, or multiple people. He needs to learn to hide his body language; every once in a while he’ll tip his head one way or his hand will twitch. He’d need to learn to keep still if he wanted to have private conversations during debriefings.

Grey is staring at the ceiling, occasionally blowing a puff of air through his lips. “Where we headed now?” he asks.

“We’re headed up to the bridge. You should at least get to meet Bliz,” Yousa explains.

Grey cocks his head. “Who’s Bliz?”

“Commander Bliz,” Yousa corrects herself.

“And you refer to him by name?!”

Oh boy. “Privately, yes,” she says. “Everyone does. You’ll get used to it.”

Grey purses his lips but doesn’t argue. “What’s he like, Commander Bliz?”

Where to begin? Does she start with the obvious alcohol addiction he tries to hide or his wild debauch behavior he barely has under wraps? Does she tell Grey about how Bliz occasionally openly flirts with General Dei (and that she often responds back), or his wide and broad violent streak? His anger issues? How he doesn’t sleep and supposedly (most likely) steals stim shots from the medbay while Cord knowingly lets him?

Okay, the last one is more of a rumor than anything else--but Yousa can’t say she’d never put it past him. When not wearing something long-sleeved, Bliz always makes sure to cover his right wrist. Everyone is suspicious.

“He’s quite...something,” Yousa offers with what is hopefully a friendly smile. Her goal isn’t to make Commander Bliz seem like a bad person. Personally, she thinks she’s failing. “You’ll get to like him.”

“That doesn’t help me.” Grey has begun squirming again, but this time its cause is fear and not embarrassment. “Is it true he swears a lot?”

Yousa scoffs. “This is the 686th. Of course he does--and the general does too, but she’s trying to keep your virgin ears safe.”

“Doesn’t ‘virgin’ mean…?”

“Grey.” Yousa turns to fully face the clone sergeant. “Don’t be another Poindex. Please.” She’s not sure if she can handle it.

He takes the hint and changes the subject. “When’ll we get to paint our armor?”

Yousa tips her head, thinking back to when she was a shiny. “I don’t know, actually,” she responds. They certainly have enough paint to last the shinies should they ever mess up their patterns. “We’ve got some artsy brothers who’ll walk you through the process. It should only be a few days.”

Grey nods, subconsciously eyeing his thigh plates. His gloved fingers lightly run along the smooth, hard, clean-white surface. Attempting subtlety and failing miserably, his eyes constantly flicker between Yousa’s full-decorated, well battered armor and his new set until she’s forced to question him.

“What? Do you hate the white that much?” She gives him a look, wanting to just burn the answer out of his so he’ll stop being weird.

“No, of course not s--” Grey stops himself, sighs. “I just...I don’t want it to look like this.”

Yousa chuckles. “No one’s going to make fun of you, Grey.”

The elevator lurches a bit. Grey almost grabs the wall to keep steady but maintains his balance. Angel pulls off his helmet, biting his lip. He runs his fingers along the visor and makes a face, like he’s contemplating something.

“What’s up?” Yousa says. She punches his shoulder--he hadn't heard her the first time.

“H-Huh?” Angel casts a glance at her and shifts his focus to his helmet again. There’s the slight crackle of voices coming from inside his helmet. He manually shuts it off and shifts his weight in an effort to appear casual. “Nothing.”

“That’s definitely not ‘nothing’, Angel,” Yousa retors with a teasing smile. “Come on; you can tell me.”

“I was just talking to some other clones. Nothing much.” Angel’s lying--he keeps worrying his lip and avoiding eye contact. 

A warning bell goes off in the back of Yousa’s mind, but she desperately tries to ignore it. Instead, she maintains her quickly faltering smile and hopes Angel wasn’t talking to who she thinks. “Who was it?” she asks.

“They said they were some guys from your squad--”

“Who, Angel?”

“They said their names were Cutter and Ro.” Angel studies Yousa’s face, her body, concern and fear growing in his eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”

For a moment, Yousa can only hear the blood rushing in her ears. A tremble runs through her body; her heart stops cold until her hands begin to shake and her stomach twists into small, aggravated knots. She fights to keep her voice calm. “What did they say?” 

Maybe she wasn’t as calm as she’d originally thought. Maybe Angel takes her forced smile as a threat and sees straight through Yousa’s veneer of nonchalance--it doesn’t matter. Angel gets defensive.

“What does it matter?” Angel demands. As if Yousa’s made a move for it, he moves his bucket to his other side and holds it there. 

“What did they say, Angel? Was it about me?” She could be being paranoid. Her rational parts are telling her that they probably didn’t say anything. Her squad might’ve just been welcoming the new shinies to the 686th or asking Angel about himself. 

That’s what the hopeful part of her wants to believe. The less hopeful part--the part that’s lived with her squad for years--knows almost without hearing that it’s not anything but degrading, mocking phrases meant to make her look like a fool.

“No, it wasn’t about you,” he lies. “Yousa, they were just wishing me luck. That’s it, relax.” But Angel keeps looking at her weirdly and Yousa can’t keep her own negative thoughts from chasing circles through her head. 

She feels stupid for worrying, stupid for even asking Angel, and stupid for agreeing to reign in the shinies. She should have just kept to herself--that’s the strategy that always works out best for her. She’s almost able to calm herself down again when Grey pulls off his own bucket, shares a look with Angel, and says nothing. 

Yousa wants to throw up again, but she can’t because the elevator lurches to a stop and the doors open. The influx of cooler air flows in a settles around her head like a cloud. 

“You ready to meet Bliz?” Yousa says to no one in particular. Her own voice sounds strange to her.

“Commander Bliz,” Grey says curtly. Yousa doesn’t have the heart to snap back.

She leads them silently down some shorter halls. The foot traffic and number of droids grows the closer they get to the bridge. A pair of astromechs strolls by, trilling to each other and swiveling their shiny domes to look at the shinies.

“Welcome to the command center,” Yousa announces dryly. The automatic double doors open with their own level of theatrics, and the group is introduced to a much tighter, more calculated buzz than what they’d experienced before. 

Deck officers dressed in grey mill about the central terminal, clones dressed similarly at their seats on the floor below, watching over different aspects of the ship’s controls.

Grey stops cold, intimidated by the clean-cut formality of the command deck. His nervous fingering of his helmet gets more frantic and slightly out of control. Yousa bumps his shoulder, but she’s not sure it actually does anything.

“Sometime today, maybe?” Angel mutters.

Hunched over the central communications terminal is Commander Bliz, his face highlighted in blue from its glowing display screen. He bears most of his weight on his hands, which are pressed firmly against the rim of the display. General Dei stands next to him in the same position, although her glare is nowhere near as vicious. 

“We’ve been rescheduled again, Bliz.” General Dei chews her thumb nail, staring hard at the formation of little holographic ships and planets. “We’ll be in the main defense--I don’t know why--and Skywalker’s gonna pull up the front, as usual.” She’s not pleased. 

“It’s because some people can’t do their fucking jobs,” Commander Bliz mutters. He stands up abruptly, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair. “What kind of bullshit plan is this?”

General Dei sighs. “Bliz--”

“We’re about to take half a fucking planet and so far, we’re the only ones who haven’t seen battle yet. Who do they put on offense? Skywalker, who’s just getting back from fighting and losing Balora and Trannive--”

“Bliz, there’s no fighting this,” General Dei says, straightening and stretching her back. 

The Commander pauses as if he’s just had a brilliant idea. “You like to argue.”

The General snorts. “I am not going to fight this, Bliz.”

“But you like arguing. Just say Skywalker’s too weak and that we really need reinforcements at the front, not bringing up the rear.”

“What’s done is done.” She pops her back. “Although I would love to see Anakin’s ass destroyed in this mess of a plan.” She finally notices the trio standing awkwardly by the door. 

Commander Bliz is a second behind her, his eyes whipping to the door and giving them a slow once over. His face is a mask of confusion and aggravation. “Who are you?”

“Oh, the kids are here.” And just like that, General Dei’s face holds a bright smile again. “Welcome to the bridge!”

Commander Bliz only continues to stare. “We only got two?”

“There were more of us; they’ve been dropped off already, sir,” Angel says, much more confident in tone and body language than Grey.

That must be why Bliz assumes he’s the leader of their squad. “You the one in charge?”

Grey jumps in, albeit timidly. “Actually, sir, that’s me. CT-4384, sir. My name’s Grey. I’m the sergeant.”

“And you guys just pulled in? Have you been shown around yet?” Commander Bliz asks. He lists them as if they’re tedious tasks to be crossed off on a to-do list. “Are your trunks taken care of?”

“It’s all done, sir. We’re towards the end of our tour,” Yousa says, stepping in before he can barrage them with more questions.

Commander Bliz points an accusing finger at Grey. “Then why is he here?”

“He’s staying with us for a time,” General Dei cuts in, back to focusing on the hologram. 

“He’s barely even a sergeant, General.” The Commander is on the verge of whining. He gives the offensive trio another annoyed look before at least having the courtesy to lower his voice and completely change what language he is speaking. “Ifi nnem ap--”

Surprisingly enough, General Dei responds in kind. “Kutu nwa, akpe omu ta. Okay?”

He sighs. “Fine. Alright.” Snapping his fingers, he gestures to Grey and then to a spot across from him at the hologram display. “You, here.”

Grey looks around like a terrified cadet, sending a reluctant glance back to Yousa before scooting to his new position across from Bliz.

Sucks to be him. Yousa feels sorry for him, but she can’t afford to stay and deal with Bliz’s mood.

“Your turn, kid.” Yousa tugs Angel away and back down the elevators. “You’re the pilot, right?”

“Aspiring,” he corrects. “I’m not that good,” he mutters, embarrassed and ashamed. “My scores were...low, to say the least.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great with Rita--she’s a great teacher,” Yousa assures him. “You’re not gonna be great at everything.” Except Rita had been at the very top of her class and all the lists since she came out of her jar. Yousa decides to leave that part out.   
“Wait wait wait, she?” Angel dead stops in the middle of the hall, his face a mess of confusion and bewilderment. “As in female?”

Yousa often forgets that although she and Rita are the same in being women, Rita is “out and about” about her feelings, to say the least--as in, she tells everyone she can when she can, and has corrected general on it before. But, that’s the only thing they have in common; otherwise, their personalities are polar.

“Uh, yeah...she’s a woman.” Yousa hopes she hasn’t gone too far with...she doesn’t know. Something tells her she’s going too far.

“We have civilian pilots on board?”

“No, she’s a clone, Angel. She identifies as female.”

Angel pauses at that, chewing his lip in thought. “Alright.” And he continues on, strolling past Yousa till he realizes he has no clue where he’s going. “You coming?”

Yousa hot steps it to Angel, leading him along down several more halls. The number of clones they pass increases the closer they get to the hangars. There’s a steadily increasing background noise as well with the rise in the number of droids and vehicles.

Angel tries to strike up a conversation. “So about that female clone--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Yousa says curtly.

He looks hurt but does his best to cover it up. Yousa feels sort of guilty. “Oh, alright. Sorry.” And he falls silent. 

They continue the rest of this short leg of the journey in silence. A squeaky astromech keeps pace with them, probably because it’s lonely. Angel tries to keep up a conversation with it, but his understand of binary is shaky--and Yousa’s isn’t much better, so she doesn’t even attempt to help.The frustrated droid puddles it’s way on, trilling to itself in annoyance.

The pair steps through a wide doorway (there were no actual doors) into what can only be called an organized sort of chaos. The high ceiling holds numerous ships of various makes and models while down below, service clones repair surface issues and guide gunships in for landing. There are even more running about along invisible pathways, delivering supplies or just taking droids where they need to go. None of them wear armor, instead sporting blue jumpsuits, bright orange hazard jackets, and helmets with orange visors and no bottom half. Several carry glowing orange guide sticks in each hand.

An astromech attempts to fly above their heads, barely skimming Yousa’s scalp with the flames spitting from its exhaust pipes. Mentally, Yousa swears at it.

“Come on!” she yells above the noise. “I’m taking you to Rita; she’s the self-designated teacher of her ‘flight school’.”

“Is she the female clone?” Angel kicks up his pace to keep up with Yousa. “Where is she?”

Yousa notes that Angel is oddly interested in Rita, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, she simply motions to a clone dressed in full pilot’s gear (sans the helmet) standing by a Z-95 starfighter. 

Angel nothing short of skips to the pilot, tapping her on the shoulder. Rita looks surprised but excited to see a young, new face running about the hangar bay. Yousa can see her mouth moving but can’t make out any particular words. Angel is gesticulating excitedly, motioning to the Z-95 fighter and vaguely to himself. 

Oddly, Yousa feels proud of him. Angel’s the only member of the new squad so far who hasn’t either been completely rude or just plain weird. She thinks she likes him the most, even if his hair is at an awkward length right now.

Yousa continues to watch him, even after he’s lead off by Rita and comes back in full pilot’s gear, climbing into the co-pilot’s cockpit and shutting the seal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This extra-long chapter should be able to tide you guys over while I get back into my writing groove.


	5. Chapter 5

She heads back to the main halls, hoping to get something to eat. Inside, she feels warm and fuzzy, glad that she was able to reign in the shinies and not have it turn into a major disaster. Normally, those who reign in shinies get their social ranks elevated, if only just a little. It's even better when they're liked by both the General and Ridge- _then_ the tour guide's post is cemented.

She doesn't have much hope that her position within the clone hierarchy will change, not with her squad's vigilant efforts to make her remain a near social pariah. Every day there's a new rumor, or a different clone stares for just a bit too long. It's tiring, but she's used to it. The minor clones' opinions of her don't matter as much as what certain members of Crusade Squad say, but they still help to turn the wheel.

Maybe...maybe she can get Ridge to like her? He's already pretty okay with her, and he's made it clear that he hates Ro (for reasons unknown to the 686th; there's some old, bad blood between the two). Just properly going about it would be the difficult part.

Yousa's barely paying attention to where she's walking and bumps shoulders with another trooper. She can't help it if she's distracted by her own thoughts. Absently, she starts apologizing: "Sorry-"

"Maybe watch where you're going, Yousa," Cutter snaps.

Great. Now her day is ruined. Yousa only glares, pissed now that her whole mood has been turned over because Cutter felt the need to open his mouth. Instead of rising to the bait, Yousa physically bites her tongue with the full intention to ignore him and keep walking.

"I heard you reigned in the shinies, Yousa," Cutter says suddenly.

She can't make out what his intentions are, so she chooses her words carefully. "Yeah, I did."

"Were they weird?" The look on Cutter's face terrifies her, like he's anticipating something-something sadistic, something bad-and he _knows_ that Yousa will not enjoy a single part of it.

"I was only with them for like two hours." Her anxiety spikes, sending shooting nausea through her stomach. It's not necessarily the fact that the shinies _could_ be weird, thus worsening her reputation by association-it's the fact that Cutter's slowly smiling in excitement for whatever is bound to happen in the future.

And it makes her anxiety worse because she has no clue what that might be.

"I heard they actually liked him," Ro says, as if she's not standing right in front of him.

"That could change…" Cutter murmurs.

And there it is; her feet go numb, fingers shaking uncontrollably no matter how tight she makes her fists. Cutter can never let her just _exist_ ; he has to gossip, to slander her name and alienate her as much as possible. Ro is no better, just going along with what the petty sergeant says and even taking some abuses himself.

But Yousa isn't worried about Ro's weak spine. She's worried, distressed over the fact that Cutter blew her contemptible secret to the new squad of shinies. Vivid memories of Cutter's drunk, roaring laughter and heavily slurred speech come to mind. She can already hear his voice:

" _The poor man wants to be a woman-hell, he thinks he already is one! He's already started wearing his hair long and he's painted his toes, says the ladies at the salon 'won't let him' choose clear polish. Bullshit! Next thing you know, he'll be going bra shopping!"_

It has already happened before, both on and off the ship. Her whole squad either ignores what happens or joins in on Cutter's sadistic behavior. She has no safe place except for closets and her occasional girls' nights with the general, which are talked about enough as it is.

Yousa doesn't waste time in trying to respond to him. She's nearly sprinting down one hall and then another, not feeling anything but the acidic bile rising up her throat. Her plan is to go to the medbay-she's always safe in the medbay, no matter what. Cord knows about how she feels and doesn't judge her, as far as she can tell. There, she can hide and wait for her anxiety attack to pass until she can figure out what to do about the squad of shinies.

Yousa doesn't make it as far as the medbay. Her legs about to give out from under her, she ducks into a storage closet and collapses behind the grey crates. Her chest expands and contracts with an almost violent nature, but no air is getting into her. Every breath inwards is a set of nails driving into her chest, and every exhale leaves her dizzy and desperately trying to control herself. She can barely support her own weight on her hands and knees; gracelessly, she falls onto her side and pulls her knees up to her chest, trying and failing to fight off the waves of ice water pouring down her back and through her hands and feet.

Cutter's only goal is to make her miserable like this. He thrives on making himself feel better by tearing other people down, and Yousa's being the youngest of the squad automatically makes her the proverbial punching bag. It would be fine if she wasn't always pushed to these points, when she can't breathe and her whole world is crashing down around her. It would be fine if Cutter doesn't always resort to saying she's overreacting and that it's "just some teasing".

He's seen her freak out like this before. He always attempts to take the blame off himself, make it seem like he's not the bad guy in all of it. But even then, he's walking on eggshells around her, whether out of guilt or just by realizing that as a sergeant, he shouldn't be behaving like that, mean-spirited and tortuous.

For Cutter, not talking to her after a meltdown is him being kind.

Choked of air, Yousa's stomach cramps and spasms, acids burning the back of her throat. It happens again and again, but she doesn't throw up, forcing down her vomit every time it tries to fight its way up her throat. Someone could hear her dry heaving from the hallway, maybe call for help- _she_ can call for help.

With numb, uncontrollably shaking fingers, she fumbles and gropes around her belt for her comm-the comm that she left on her bunk. She can't stand, she can't try and get someone to get Cord for her.

Then, she throws up. Her mind is pulled from her communication dilemma to her bowel one. The sharp acidic taste of half-digested breakfast only makes her sicker, but she succeeds in not heaving a second time.

Cutter knows about her desires because she told them to him, many years ago when she was just a cadet and they all only had a vague idea of what a woman even was. He'd called her weird and she wasn't as bothered by it as she would have been now-after all, they'd both thought she was just entertaining fantasies as all cadets did back then. The small part of her mind that always detaches itself in these situations remembers idly that he'd wondered what it would be like to be a chef.

Cutter knows things because he's a dirty gossip. He's selfish, he's pompous despite accomplishing nothing, but the other clones tack onto him like he's a fountain spouting truth and knowledge. They don't exactly like him, but they do trade "facts".

Fact: Yousa wants to be a woman. He knows this. She knows this. Literally the whole ship knows this.

Fact: Yousa has felt like this since as early as she can remember. She never liked the idea of being male, never wanted to have a deep voice and wide shoulders. She'd wanted to be the women in the diagrams of their health lessons and then the women dancers and models on the inappropriate posters the older soldiers brought back. She knows this, but she's not sure if Cutter knows this.

Fact: Yousa has started taking hormones.

Cutter doesn't know this.

The fact that he one day inevitably will terrifies her.

Yousa almost detaches from her shivering, agonized body. Her mind drifts to where it always goes when she's like this for too long-to a quiet, almost numb place where she doesn't have to think, doesn't have to _feel_. She's aware of her surroundings but doesn't acknowledge them. Instead, she tries to pride herself on the fact that she has something that Cutter can't touch-the hormone pills in her trunk, disguised as a daily supplement. It works because she's always been low on Vitamin C and her immune system needs a boost (an actual deficiency of hers from the hormone pills).

She's been taking them for several months now.

For all his talk, Cutter isn't that bright. He has yet to piece together her sudden increased appetite and mood swings with her starting the pills, how she's been getting sick more and bruising more easily since she started the pills, and her more frequent trips to the medbay. He thinks she's been shy because she "hates her squad" and "doesn't care about her brothers" when in reality, she's gaining weight and her chest is starting to change shape. She's developing breasts.

She holds her little secret close, glad that Cord helped her get the drugs and glad that he's sworn himself to secrecy. They're not even close-he has the natural medic's emotional distance that prevents him from getting close to almost everyone on the ship. She's achieving her lifelong dream, however illegally she may be doing it. Her squad cannot and will not stop her.

She wants to be a woman, and already feels that she is. She's read on the HoloNet that many, _many_ cultures are accepting of people like her. Surgery can be done when desired. If she were to become a civilian and live among other people, no one would look twice at her. She's started using female pronouns with herself, even when speaking aloud to other people. It feels good; it feels _right_.

She taught herself everything she knows about her situation. She's not strange for aligning with a different gender, and she's not weird or abnormal for not wanting her penis. She's a sentient person. She's fine. No one has any right to belittle her for it.

All the times she's "going over regs" or "just reading stories" is time spent reading blogs by other people like her-other transgender people-and they all talk about the things they go through in their lives, the good and the bad. She has an account on a few, but she rarely posts anything. She asked one about her attraction to women, and everyone dubbed her as "lesbian", so she guesses that's another label for her.

They all assure her that she's alright, that she's not "weird" or "strange" or going through a phase. She's normal. She's healthy, and she's a valued person.

If only she could remember this all the time.

When that tiny part of her mind does eventually come back to the rest of her body, she feels she must have passed out at some point; her muscles are limp and ache, and she's barely able to flex her legs enough to sit up. It's the smell of her vomit and the feel of it sticking to her cheek (so she has been in the closet for quite a while) that motivates her to move. She eventually works up the energy to sit up. With a barely-felt palm, she wipes the sweat off her forehead and the bile on her cheek. There's a long period where she doesn't do anything, doesn't think.

Yousa manages to make her way to the medbay, to Cord, who's odd-colored eyes seem to immediately know what happened. He ushers her through the double doors and into a smaller, more private triage room. The smell of antiseptic hits her like a punch to the face; he must have just finished cleaning it (he doesn't trust the droids to do it properly).

Cord sits her down on the raised cot wordlessly, pulling a stethoscope from a drawer and checking her breathing and heart rate the way he always does. Her blood pressure is okay if a bit high. Her breathing is still thin and uneven, but it will get better.

"You threw up," he says in a way that suggests he's not expecting a response. He takes her chin in hand and gently turns her right cheek to the light. "How long did it last?"

"I don't know," she says, her own voice foreign to her. "I was in a closet," she adds, as if the small detail will help.

"Does anyone know you threw up in there?" He tears open an alcohol wipe and starts dabbing Yousa's face before she fights him and does it herself.

"No."

Cord makes a noise she can't identify. Then, satisfied with what he's done, he sits on a metal chair and stares hard at her. "Was this caused by them, or were you thinking too much again?" His words are clear of judgement.

"It was Cutter and Ro," she answers. "They told the shinies."

"Any new symptoms, new thoughts while it happened?" She tells him about not feeling anything for what was probably hours. Cord purses his lips at this. Absently, she remembers when Cord had told her she had anxiety-and not as a single moment, but a constant thing that was going on in her mind. It's why she's always worried about where her squad is and who they were talking to, what she is doing, and all the steps she would take to prevent things from getting worse. She worries, she overthinks things, she responds appropriately.

She guesses that deep down, she is a worrier-but it's always about her own person, not anyone else.

And Cord says that the dead feeling she gets in the middle of an anxiety attack is called "dissociation". She's not sure about either of the diagnoses, but leaves him to play doctor.

The slightest hint of aggravation appears on Cord's face and makes its home there. He hates them just as much as Yousa does. Despite how calm his face is, Cord's dead-colored eyes crackle with annoyance for Cutter and Ro, and pity for Yousa. "You cried pretty hard this time. Do you want to take a nap or brush your teeth first?"

Had she cried? Up til then, she's ignored the hiccups and runny nose as something else. She nods her head, confused at how heavy it feels on her neck. She doesn't formally agree to anything, but Cord pulls out a disposable toothbrush and toothpaste to use. He leaves while she stands over the sink and washes the stomach acid off her teeth.

Her reputation is no doubt destroyed. Again. She'll be a renewed pariah among shinies, who always believe all of what they hear and twice what they see. She'll be stared at. Again. She'll be the topic of conversation. Again.

But she has her fact: she feels like a woman and she's becoming one. Cutter can't stop her. The whole Republic army can't stop her. She'll be damned if she stops trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if the Star Wars universe uses the words "lesbian" and "transgender" because those both seem like colloquial terms for English, but until I come up with something else, that's what we're gonna have to stick with.
> 
> I don't often make promises, but just know that another two of my fics should be updating very soon.


	6. Chapter 6

The minty foam cools the inside of Yousa's cheeks and burns the tip of her tongue. She's brought back to the present as Cord enters the triage room again. He sits on the metal chair and waits for her to finish, unnervingly quiet.

That's the thing about him—he barely speaks to anyone (who isn't on Crusade Squad) yet knows so much about every person on the ship. Yousa had originally gone to him for help with her dilemma because she hadn't known if her feelings were normal or not. He assured her they were and immediately started research on it, as he was always want to do when faced with a new medical mystery.

As Yousa rinses out her mouth, she imagines what life would be like if she and Cord were _tua'ir_ , bonded-brothers. She entertains the idea that they would be close, not because she always tells him her secrets, but because they are close as _brothers_ , with the deep bond that is necessary to hold them together.

She doesn't have a _tua'ir_. Having a _tua'ir_ requires being liked.

She'll probably never have a _tua'ir_.

Cord sits up a bit when she finishes. "Do you need to take a nap?"

That's always the routine: she freaks out, runs to Cord, and eventually falls asleep in one of the private rooms. Yousa mulls over her options in her head, debating whether to sleep first or do damage control with the new squad—then she realizes that that would require going out among other people again, and she doesn't think she's strong enough for that.

"I'll sleep first," she decides. She dries off her mouth with a disposable towel. "I don't have the energy to deal with anyone right now." Her limbs are still dead weight, her feet nothing more than rocks that drag and shuffle across the ground.

"Do you want me to speak with General Dei about this—"

"No, please don't." His intentions are good—that's all they ever are—but General Dei is a vengeful woman who is personally invested in protecting Yousa. Normally, that just means taking her out for ice cream when she's sad, but when Yousa has a meltdown and it's linked to Cutter and Ro, she punishes the whole squad with dish duty or some other menial task (for weeks on end). They'd all know why it happened, but to anyone else, the General was just arbitrarily punishing Cutter again. Unable to handle the humiliation of being a sergeant and shining astromech droids, Cutter would take out his anger on Yousa.

General Dei never means for it to come to that, but there are times where it's best for Yousa to just suffer in silence instead of letting someone inadvertently make life more miserable for her.

Cord isn't confident in her decision, it's clear. "I can tell her to be more discreet this time—"

"No no no, it's alright. I'll handle it." Yousa heaves a sigh, scrubbing her hands over her face. She's already feeling drained of energy.

Cord isn't too pleased, but he nods anyway. "Get some sleep, Yousa."

She doesn't have to be told twice; down the hall and then up another, she's in one of the medical bay rooms for longer term clones. She closes the door and strips out of her armor, shutting off the ceiling lights and letting the soothing ambience of the glowing floor lights calm her. Yousa pulls the blanket off the next bed and doubles up, snuggled under her piles of warmth in the cool medical bay…

OoOoOoO

_The lights overhead are bright, highlighting the woman's beautiful tan skin and dark hair. Her square jaw and strong brows do nothing to detract from her beauty—in fact, they only add to it, giving her a handsome kind of beauty. She stands before a mirror, a perfect reflection of herself, if a bit lagging in mimicking her movements._

_There's no sound, but one can hear the almost vain self admiration coming from the woman. She runs her slender hands down her curvaceous hips. It's hard to tell, but she must be naked because she fancies something to wear, and it appears—a lovely black and gold gown that reaches the floor but has a suggestive slit that cuts up her thigh. The sleeves are long and made of sheer lace. She changes her mind again and she's in something else: short shorts and sleeveless tops, then a long flowing skirt and billowy shirt that fan out around her life feathers. She laughs with absolute glee._

_There's no longer any vanity in her self-appreciating stares. There is only joy, only_ peace _when she looks at the reflection of her body. There's a warm sense of content that blooms in her lungs and flows gently to her extremities, increasing in intensity the farther it goes._

_Her hips are wide and her breasts full, and her shapely, strong chin tilts upward, watching her graceful neck twist and turn with it. Even with the gentle curves from her waist to her hips, there are the stronger curves of her biceps. She's mildly muscular and proud of it._

_She is a woman. She is_ complete _._

_She's in a black, body-hugging suit now, completely unadorned except for a white symbol on her chest. She doesn't care. Nothing will stop her from feeling beautiful._

_Memories of a previous life start coming to her—or maybe they're a harbinger of what's to come. She can feel the pain, the discomfort of wearing the black suit. In an effort to forget about it, she tries to put herself in the long skirt that shows off her thighs whenever she moves. It appears temporarily but is soon swallowed whole by black suit on her legs._

_The pain, the discomfort and agony, they begin to drag her shoulders down. She runs. They give chase._

_White shapes begin forming on the black suit, and soon she's in armor, running away from laser fire and shouting voices. She knows that the armor is supposed to fit, that it's something she was born with, but the hard plastoid is too tight around her hips and chest and spacious around her waist. Her hair gets caught in the chinks and ends up being painfully ripped out of her head._

_Her feet catch on the ground. In front of her are people, dressed identically to her. They stand in a line and look at her with disapproval, with disgust. Even though she is dressed, the woman feels exposed somehow, like she's naked before strangers and they are judging what they don't like about her body._

_The one in the middle steps forward. He makes no sound, says no words, but his lips curl in a snarl of utter contempt. She knows he hates her._

_Everything she once loved about herself—what was once her pride, her womanhood—begins to turn ugly to her. Her wide hips feel heavy and awkward, like a belt of stones she's forced to walk with. The chest that had once had fabrics curve so beautifully begins to constrict her chest, crushes her ribs till she can't breathe._

_Her legs—so awkward and heavy now that she can barely use them—break into a run. She can't get their hateful faces out of her mind. They sit right before her eyes, seared permanently into her brain, her very being._

_She was proud of her womanhood, of what made her feel complete and like a person, but now she is ashamed. The woman collapses into a corner, pulls her legs up toward her body and shudders at what she had just gone through._

_She's no longer curvaceous. Her hips are now straight edges, her neck short and her chest small. What had once been an inherent part of her is now a terrible, shameful secret._

_It's a secret she guards near her heart, so near the very core of her being that it's impossible for anyone else to touch. The chest armor falls away and she's able to pull back the black suit. There, in the dark, is her secret—and it's growing bigger again. She knows that one day, it will grow big and fill her whole body till it isn't a secret or a burden, but something to be proud of, something to never let go of. She awaits that day._

_But for now, she hides._

OoOoOoO

Yousa wakes, a heavy feeling sinking into her chest.

She rarely dreams about herself, let alone one in which she's actually a woman.

Bits and pieces of the dream form until they are entire sequences and scenes, and then the whole thing comes to her like an embarrassing image she'd rather erase.

She's dreamt she was a woman and relished in it, but now she's ashamed that she'd so openly indulged a fantasy like that.

But what was there to be ashamed of? If she's been referring to herself as a woman and using female pronouns enough that dream-Yousa is a woman, that is something to be _proud_ of. It means that she's coming to terms with herself.

But there's no pride or relief, only shame. In the moments after all the dreams she has where she's a woman, all she feels is shame.

Yousa is the only one who knows she dreams of being a woman. Not even Cord, someone she tells everything to, is aware.

It's another secret to hide.

She feels guilty about being guilty and hates it enough to force herself out of bed. Rising with a mild pop in her joints, she re-armors and steps into the bright medbay hall. How long had she been asleep? An hour? Two? Three?

Rubbing the bleariness out of one eye, she makes her way back to the triage room, where Cord is looking over another clone she realizes to be Ridge. His face is red and his eyes swollen—Ridge looks miserable. His eyes fly to hers when she enters.

He's is the first to look away, unbothered that someone is seeing him in this state. He sniffs and hiccups but otherwise doesn't say anything.

Yousa gets the sense that she's intruding despite being in the main triage room. There's something in the way Cord is turning Ridge's face in his hands, the way he's murmuring quietly, as if he doesn't want to spook Ridge. It's a level of care and concern that she's never seen him demonstrate before.

She realizes then what it is—Cord is being _tender_ , not coolly distant the way he normally is under any other circumstance. He's caring for Ridge, asking him questions, checking him over the way a mother would for her child, not the way a medic would for an injured clone. She sees how close they are in the way Cord is able to stand so near and not have Ridge recoil automatically. Up until then, she's always been under the impression that Ridge had an extreme aversion to physical contact. After all, he would never let anyone sit too close or even pat him on the back.

It seems there is one person that can touch him.

And it's not like he's just being extra careful with Ridge, no. This is actual _physical contact_ between two people she'd never thought could ever touch anyone.

This is the behavior displayed by a _tua'ir_ only.

Cord is gently wiping away the tears on Ridge's face with his thumb, not a tissue. His other hand lightly rubs Ridge's back. Instead of turning away, Ridge leans into his hand and lets it stay there. Cord says something else and ridge responds, equally quiet, albeit his voice still wobbles. Ridge pulls his legs up onto the bed and crosses them, placing his face in his hands and hanging his head.

Cord then does something she's never seen him do before: instead of continuing to rub Ridge's back, he instead hugs him, pulling him close and holding his head to the crook of his neck. He's making soothing noises as best he can, muttering words of comfort to Ridge, whose shoulders begin to shake a bit. "It's okay, Ridge," she hears him say.

As he rocks gently back and forth, he kisses the top of Ridge's head, and that's when Yousa decides to quietly slip away.

In the corridor outside the medbay, Yousa contemplates what she's just seen. She knows Ridge well enough to know that he would never openly cry in front of anyone, let alone let anything bother him enough to push him to tears.

She feels it isn't her place to examine their bond, so she pushes her mind to her new task: going over damage control with the new squad. Bugs crawl in the pit of her stomach, and she takes a shuddery breath in an attempt to calm them. She's not even sure how she's going to convince them she's not crazy without actually _saying_ it.

Of course, all her daydreaming brings her right outside the shiny squad's door. Without thinking (lest she nunas out and runs) she opens the door to their barracks.

All six of their heads whip up, surprised at their visitor. Their expressions of surprise, however, quickly become guarded masks as they realize who exactly it is.

So they know.

Angel's face is different, however. He stares more openly, in that habit that shinies have when they're looking at something new or something they don't understand. Yousa is both, obviously.

"You guys settling in alright?" she asks, desperate to break the thick silence.

As is his habit, Grey speaks for all of them. "We're doing just fine, sir. Got lost a bit on the way to the barracks, though." He doesn't specify whether it had been the whole squad or just him who got lost.

Poindex, ever tactless, speaks without thinking. "We talked to some of your squad and—"

"Your _sergeant_ told us about you," Grey says in an accusatory tone—as if she was supposed to mention that she's the same rank as them. Inside, she's a little indignant. How is it her fault that they collectively assumed she's higher ranking?

Nervously, she clears her throat. "Oh really?" she asks in faux-innocence. Her fingers turn jittery and her heart quickens to an uncomfortable pace.

Nothing is said. Grey's eyes are explicitly narrowed at her, but the rest just avoid eye contact.

The damage is done. There's no undoing what Cutter did. Yousa's defeat almost crawls onto her face, but she manages to maintain her friendly façade when she really wants to scream. "If you ever want to hang out sometime, I can show you—"

"No, that's alright," Grey cuts in, interjecting before Poindex and Miser can speak. "We'll get along just fine."

Yousa doesn't miss the "without _you_ " that clings to the end of his sentence, unspoken but still there. So then, Cutter and Ro not only told them she's a freak, they talked about her "insubordination" and all the contraband she's hoarding somewhere (magazines she'd gathered from salons, cheap nail polish, and the like). There is literally no other explanation as to why Grey is acting so protectively, looking at her like she's a criminal.

Not only do they think she's insane, they think she's a disrespectful thief. Yousa can't handle their stares anymore. Before she can completely break down and resort to either tears or violence to relieve her frustration, she exits their barracks and starts long strides down the hall. She's nearly about to round the bend when she hears footsteps racing to catch up to her.

"Yousa! Yousa wait!" Angel cries. He catches up to her, huffing a bit.

She looks at him silently, wondering why he actually wants to interact with her. "What?"

He makes a face like he's suddenly regretting speaking to her. He pushes through anyway, clearly determined. "I wanna hang out," he declares.

Yousa blinks, too surprised for words. "You do?" she says, incredulous.

Angel nods his head. "Yeah," he says, "I've never had alcohol before."

Something in Yousa relaxes a bit. "Alright, we can hang out tomorrow, if you like." Angel seems to agree with this because he immediately starts heading back to his barracks. Yousa turns to go around the corner, but Angel's behind her again.

She looks at him questioningly. He stands there and squirms, unsure about what he's trying to say. The shiny is caught between just blurting out what he wants and finding a more refined way of speaking. Yousa is about to tell him to spit it out when he beats her to it.

"I don't think you're weird," he says. He looks her in the eye, fully serious now and not uncomfortable at all. "You're not weird, Yousa." And off he dashes again, back to his squad.

Yousa just stands there, dumbfounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a writing frenzy. I managed to push this chapter out in a mere couple of hours, and I'm already planning the next one.
> 
> It's my personal headcanon that the clones have developed their own language (NOT Mando'a, honestly I hate Mandalorians) with dialects that vary between battalions and certain groups of battalions. The one you'll be seeing in this fic is the 686th dialect, which is very similar to the 501st dialect, and then the 212th dialect. It's a very difficult language to learn.
> 
> Nunas out = chickens out


	7. Chapter 7

Yousa had asked Ridge out and he’d said yes--not as a romantic date (ew, they’re both clones) but as _uksha’ir_. A brother-date. Platonic.

And yet, she’s nervous as if it _were_ a date. Ridge knows-- _actually knows_ \--about Yousa, but he hasn’t looked at her like she is a human with a third eye yet.

_Yet_. It could happen.

Yousa is sitting on her bed now, and she hasn’t stopped brushing her hair for almost an hour. There’s hair everywhere, but she doesn’t care. She’s stressing, and brushing her hair is better than either pulling it out or eating. The barracks doors swish open and shut. The immediate curl in Yousa’s stomach tells her who it is; she doesn’t even need to turn around.

“Bad hair day, Yousa?” Cutter asks sarcastically. Had they been friends, they would have both laughed at the joke. But Yousa hates Cutter and the whole squad (minus Fortaj) hates her, so it’s not a joke but a cruel jab.

She just huffs and ignores him, brushing her hair more furiously now. _Ignore him, ignore him, ignore him--_

“What’s stressing you, brother? Is it that _uksha’ir_ with Ridge?” Ro inquires, clinging to the bunk above her and stretching. She can hear his joints popping.

How does he know? She made sure not to tell _anyone._ It’s only been two days and somehow the worst people in the galaxy know what she’ll be doing in two hours.

“You know he wears nail polish, right?” Cutter says like it’s a bad thing. Yousa knows; it’s black and it needs to be redone soon. _Her_ fingers are light blue and her toes lavender. “You think maybe he’s one of you?” he asks. The lack of humor or mocking tone in his voice makes her look up.

Guarded and on edge, she pushes a step. “What do you mean, ‘one of me’?”

Cutter’s doing the same thing as Ro, hanging from the bunk across from her and leaning forward so his torso is stretched and his back is curved. He shrugs. “You know…” he says, “Girly. Like you.”

Yousa’s stopped brushing her hair, the brush halfway through an overtired lock. She just sits there staring, her face growing more defensive by the second.

Cutter scoffs. “You’re already taking this the wrong way, Yousa.” He sits down on the mattress, swinging his legs over to be closer to her. “You’ve probably found a clone who’s like you that you can be friends with.”

Nothing about Yousa’s body language changes. She’s still tense, still ready for that _one thing_ that she knows will set one of them off. “Is there something else you’re trying to say?” Her gut is clenching, telling her that there’s some ulterior motive to Cutter speaking to her and not at her or around her like she’s not even there.

She can’t place it, but she _knows_ it’s there. This whole time, he’s been formulating a way to answer her rather vague question, she can see. He chews his inner lip when he’s thinking really hard.

“You’re quiet, you know,” Cutter responds at last. “Not a lot of friends, not a very popular guy cause of…” He cuts himself off, rethinking the path conversation path he wants to go down. “Well, you _know_ what you are.”

_What_ she is, not _who_ she is. She doesn’t need Cutter to tell her that she’s the “quiet angry loner type” who responds to almost nothing anyone (her squad) says and yet blows up at everything. _She knows_.

“But now you’ve got another girly friend you can hang out with to, uh, bring you out of your shell, maybe…”

Where the hell is this going? Yousa maintains her silence, and she can tell that her lack of a reaction is making Cutter uncomfortable.

“Maybe you’ll start to actually hang out with your brothers,” Ro butts in, to Cutter’s annoyance.

Yousa barely spares him a glance. “What are you trying to say?”

“You’ll come out of your shell, you’ll hang out with Ridge, and then maybe we can all go out together--”

“Yeah, to try on dresses together,” Ro jokes.

Cutter shoots him a vicious look--a “You ruined it” look--and Yousa instantly understands why they’re talking to her, why they’re even interested in her outing with Ridge--they want to use her to get to Ridge. Why? Because he has _money_.

He does--it’s the only reason they’re getting manicures and ice cream when they go out. He’s more obsessed with Coruscanti civilian culture than she is, and he has the money to indulge in those interests; he has food stashed all over the ship, piercings, tattoos, _candy_ , and a sweater or two that he wears when he’s in fatigues. Ridge is always treating the new shinies and recruits to ice cream and sandwiches, because “It isn’t fair that they can’t taste a little bit of heaven and are stuck with _this_ crap.”

Cutter and Ro want that life. They want the food and the access to probably illegally-obtained money and constant outings (Ridge hates staying on the base). They don’t care about Yousa’s well-being--she never believed they did in the first place.

Ro stumbles to correct his faux pas. “But I’m sure we’ll all still have fun together,” he says. His smile is nowhere near comforting.

Finally, Yousa puts down her brush. She looks Cutter in the eye. “He hates the both of you.”

Cutter starts, Ro’s suddenly tense body beside her putting her on alert. They both try to argue before Cutter takes over. “No he doesn’t--”

“Yes, he does. He’s never going to try and be friends with either of you--” she shoots Ro a glare, “and _I’m_ sure as hell not going to help you two get closer to him,” she spits.

Cutter goes quiet, obviously trying to keep his temper in check. “We’re not trying to _use_ you for anything, brother,” he says slowly, like she’s an idiot. “We just want to...get closer to you.” Yousa makes a face and even he doesn’t look comfortable with the thought.

“No, you don’t,” Yousa says. They’re both about to interject but she doesn’t give them any room. “You’ve _never_ actually wanted to get close to me, not unless it was something to benefit one of you.” She remembers a year or two back, when she was still trying to figure things out and the whole squad had been friendlier. Whenever they started getting “close”, it was just to get more gossip material out of her. Back then, she’d tell them her fantasies and then be surprised when people started asking her when she planned to take leave to get surgery done. She shudders internally at the memories.

“If you would just _try_ to understand our side of things, Yousa, maybe we could actually get along,” Cutter says. He’s changed the subject, and even without saying it, they all know what he’s talking about.

She visibly bristles. “I’m not having another one of these ‘talks’, Cutter,” she bites.

Cutter gets defensive as well. “If you could just _listen_ to our side of things--”

Ro butts in: “We get that whatever you’re going through is weird for you, Yousa, but you’ve gotta understand that it’s weird for us, too--”

“No!” she nearly shouts, rising to her feet in an instant. “No, you don’t get to do that to me!”

“Yousa, calm down--”

_“No!”_ Now she’s shouting, loud enough to be heard from the halls--but she doesn’t care if anyone hears. “Your side doesn’t help anyone but yourselves--you do nothing but make me feel like shit for this when you could just leave me alone about it!”

Cutter stands as well, nearly toe-to-toe with her. “Watch your tone, trooper,” he warns.

She should stop before she says something she regrets. “You have no right to treat me like I’m some laughingstock.”

“You did that yourself, buddy,” Ro says stupidly.

Her whole body is hot, her fingers trembling as she barely holds back the need to break something. “ _Fuck you!_ The both of you!” she shouts, not catching herself in time.

Rage sparks in Cutter’s eyes, but Yousa doesn’t stay long enough to see the consequences. She turns and bolts out of the barracks, running away from whatever it is he’s yelling after her. Just entering the hallway, she hears “he left his hair all over my _fucking_ bunk!”

Yousa dashes the short few meters to the end of the hall and pauses at the turn, struggling to catch her breath and contain her anger. It takes a few minutes for the shaking to slow down and for her to collect her thoughts. Hands balled in tight, shaking fists, she tilts her head back and waits for the adrenaline to pass.

They have no right, yet every chance they get, the conversation loops back to that. She lets her feet carry her down one hall and up another, cool breezes running over her tingling scalp; she must have brushed too hard.

Before she knows it, she’s outside the Nerd room--and then she’s walking through the doors into the weirdly muggy and dark computer room. Ridge looks up at her and squints in the light. “We’re going now,” she says immediately upon entrance.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Shit happened.”

He says no more; standing with nothing more than a “bye guys” that is barely returned, he leads Yousa out of the Nerd Room and down another roundabout way she doesn’t recognize. “We’re gonna take a transport down surfaceside and I’ll show you around some places I know,” he says as they move toward the smaller transport hangar.

“What are we going to do?”

Ridge is silent for a second, scrunching up his face in contemplation. “Uh...we might hit my place first, then--”

“Wait wait wait,” Yousa says, interrupting him. “You have a _place_?” Like an apartment? An actual home? She’s intrigued (obviously) but she can’t help but feel a bit uneasy--how does he get what he has legally?

Ridge smirks. “I have lots of stuff, Yousa.”

The trip on the transport is short. Yousa takes the spot closest to the window, gripping the overhead handle as the atmosphere changes from dark to light, from outer space to the midday sky of Coruscant. The military transport lands on the platform of the Republic Base. There’s a short battle between the pilot and the platform officer as some other transport had been scheduled to land there when they did, but it’s sorted out quickly. Ridge wastes no time in bounding down the ramp and into the building.

Once they’re inside, they exit the base on the other end, down long hallways connecting to large board rooms and closets.

“There a reason you wanted to leave so quickly?” The only person who has a higher voice than her is Ridge, but his is naturally like that whereas Yousa forces hers.

Yousa chews her lip, contemplating how much she wants to divulge to him. He’s nice enough to at least invite her out somewhere, which never happens to her. She just can’t say too much. “My squad is full of assholes,” she says. “I just…” She groans involuntarily. “I just can’t stand them.”

Ridge is completely understanding, another thing she doesn’t expect. “My first two squads were horrible.”

“How so?”

“They were just bad.”

She knows better than to press any further--the fact that he’s had two squads already tells her enough. Following Ridge off the base grounds, she can’t help but let her eyes wander over the people and buildings they pass. Most are apartments, but some are clothing stores and restaurants. There are still other businesses that she isn’t sure what they do--they have displays, but they’re mixed items of mannequins and watches.

Even all the people interest her. She’s met Twi’leks and Rodians, but that’s about the extent of her inter-species interaction. During the day time, she can see more people of more species than she ever normally does. They all barely touch on the crowded walkways, some pressing close to the banisters while other do their best to dodge and weave every obstacle. There are couples and families walking about. Farther up, she can see two people arguing in front of a department store, probably an angry customer and the store owner.

It’s all new to her, slightly overwhelming even though it’s interesting. Her monotone, monochromatic life harshly contradicts with what she’s walking through right now. It’s a lot to take in. She suddenly remembers something important. “Didn’t you say you had an apartment?” she asks, wondering when they’ll come up to it.

“Yeah” is all he says.

“So...do you actually own it? Does it have your stuff in it?” Yousa doesn’t even know what “his stuff” would constitute. Armor cleaner? Some extra underclothes?

“Uh, well…” This is where Ridge pauses, stopping in the middle of the pathway and forcing people to walk around him. “It’s not _mine_ specifically,” he concedes. “It legally is my girlfriend’s, but--”

“You have a _girlfriend_?”

“ _Yes_ , I have a girlfriend,” he repeats back. “She owns it, I live there--and I help pay for stuff.”

Simple enough. Yousa thinks about what it would be like, having a girlfriend; what would she even do with her? All she can come up with is talking and kissing, and then a mix of the two.

They soon arrive at a walkway that has only two-story apartments on it, the buildings pressed together so tight some of them share walls. The pair stops in front of the third one, Ridge fishing a key out of his pouch as they make their way up the stairs. Yousa’s fingertips get all tingly in excitement, anticipation and curiosity.

The door swings open, the interior surprising Yousa even though there’s nothing special about it. The walls are a pale, dusty blue, and two couches line opposite walls, one to the left and one to the right. A display screen is mounted on the wall, and a little black rug and caf table are in the middle of the small space. To the back is a tiny set of stairs and what looks to be an elevated kitchen with a half-wall that looks into the living room. She can’t see beyond the light cast by the kitchen, however, because the rest of the apartment is dark.

It’s like the doorway flips one part of Ridge off and the other side on. With the turning on of the lights comes a complete change in mood; his shoulders straighten yet he’s relaxed; his gait is lankier but everything about him is perkier. He tosses his bucket on the couch, prompting Yousa to do the same. She gently rests hers on the caf table.

“The fresher’s right here,” he says, rapping on its door while stooping to pull off a boot. “You can find a drink or snack if you want in the preserver in the kitchen--just don’t touch the green drinks cause those are my girlfriend’s.” And he disappears into a bedroom.

Yousa feels out of place, too big for the midsized couch. She sits gingerly in its center, looking from the remote on the caf table to the display screen and back. She hits the ‘ON’ button, staring curiously at a commercial for some kind of...object. It looks like it’s meant to sweep under small, narrow spaces. The next thing that comes on isn’t even a program--it’s another advertisement. A sensual woman runs through shallow water, dripping in gold jewelry. Of all the things it could have been advertising, the last thing Yousa expects is _perfume_.

_What the hell,_ she thinks, _running through water isn’t a smell._ Civilians are weird.

Then there’s an ad with a loud man advertising how strong and crazy-amazing his pots and pans are, which is strange because Yousa never thought there was a difference between one pot and another--or that there is even a pan specifically for sauces.

She must have been watching the commercials for a while; Ridge emerges fully dressed in a long-sleeved gray shirt that reaches his thighs, tight black pants with deliberate-looking rips in them, and short black lace-up boots. “Sorry it took me so long,” he apologizes with a slight puff. “My girlfriend called and she’s on her way back from school--” He examines the scene in front of him. “Did you...watch infomercials for a straight thirty minutes?”

Yousa straightens, embarrassed. She points to the screen. “That’s not normal?”

“Nope.” But he smiles at her. “But I think my girlfriend will like you, just for that.”

Her stomach curls. The 686th is a relief battalion and thus she has extensive contact with civilians, yes, but she’s never met one _personally_. This is big--this is _huge_. Her fingers automatically flit through her hair, which she’s let down now that Cutter and Ro aren’t near her.

Ridge notices. “She’ll be here in a few minutes. You can meet her.”

“Don’t I need to change into something…?” Sometimes non-army related. She’d take a sheet if he had one.

Ridge shakes his head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. She knows I’m a clone.” He smiles again at her incredulous look, shrugging. “We met when I was in armor.”

The doorknob turns just then, wiggles and then lets open the rest of the door. Yousa sees the heavy black bag first. That hits the ground with a loud _thud_ while the rest of the woman comes through the door.

Yousa never could have imagined an adult could be short, but there she is: Short blonde hair, short stature, but round with a belly that sticks out just a little and creaseless eyes that say her parents are from the planet Karin. Bright green irises briefly pass over Yousa. “Hey Ridge,” she says, distracted.

“Hiya, Pelly,” he says from on top of the stairs. She starts and takes a harder look at Yousa, then where his voice came from.

“Oh!” she exclaims, her eyes flicking between the two of them. “Is this your friend you were talking about?” She beams, extending a tiny hand to Yousa. “I’m Pelly.”

A girlfriend. A _girlfriend_. A real-life girlfriend is in front of Yousa and she can’t stop staring.

Yousa stands nervously, towering over the small woman. She takes the hand and shakes firmly, like she was taught on Kamino. “I’m Yousa,” she says, smiling back a little more reservedly.

“You don’t mind if we head out, do you?” Ridge says to Pelly, fixing his laces. “Yousa’s just gonna borrow some of my clothes and I’ll show her around this place.” He’s completely relaxed, one hip cocked to the side and his arms dangling.

Yousa never would have thought a clone could _do_ that, look so relaxed and happy in a civilian’s home--or look relaxed and happy at all. Maybe it’s just been a while since she’s felt that.

Ridge beckons Yousa to come towards the stairs. “I don’t have any feminine stuff for you to wear or anything that actually has...color…” he says with apologetic tones. “I wear mostly black.”

Before they disappear into the bedroom, Yousa shoots a look back to Pelly, still standing by the door with a look on her face that settles on her like a rock. When she notices Yousa’s looking, she quickly smiles again, but Yousa knows what the look is--discomfort, the kind you get when you see something you don’t like but don’t want to make a scene about it.

Ridge’s girlfriend isn’t that great, and she knows this because once he mentioned “feminine clothing”, Pelly’s whole demeanor changed. She doesn’t like people like Yousa, is obviously mildly disgusted by her despite not even knowing her.

Yousa’s heart sinks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead I swear! I just have school and a life and shit-but you all know that. I've recently gotten back into my writing groove, so expect to see maybe one or two (!) other fics updated pretty soon.
> 
> ~AAx


	8. Going Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much, here. Sort of a "filler", I guess--but also kind of cute.

Yousa is standing in the only bedroom, shirtless in front of a floor-length mirror. Ridge has just left after picking out the girliest clothes in the apartment without raiding his girlfriend’s drawers. All of the dark, stylish clothes lay on the bed, one pair of form-fitting pants on Yousa’s legs. She pulls out a thin, black shirt that’s tight around the arms and chest but flares out slightly towards the bottom. She tries it on; it flows nicely around her waist and moves almost independently of her body. _Swish swish_. It would be nicer if it were blue.

She settles on the shirt but takes off the pants and tries on a pair that’s also solid black, looser around the hips and thighs but tight once it gets to her knees. Her feet are bare, but she had spied some flat, simple shoes in the closet earlier and is planning on asking Ridge if she can wear them.

Yousa’s eyes run up and down the person reflected in the mirror. She looks...nice. She’s not sure if she’s in keeping with Coruscanti fashion, but she knows enough from her magazines that it definitely isn’t ultra-feminine women’s fashion that she likes. Her stomach curls; she takes a deep breath to settle it--but she’s startled when she gets a closer look at her chest.

Her breasts are visible through the shirt. Not massive or obvious, but they’re clearly-defined bumps that raise up when she squishes are arms together. The corners of her lips tug upward, harder and harder until she’s grinning so fiercely her cheeks hurt. She even _giggles_ \--kriff, it feels good to laugh.

Yousa’s chest isn’t big, but it’s _there_. It’s there, poking up in two points through her shirt. She smooths out the cloth, puffing up her chest and turning at different angles in the mirror. She’s so happy, so ecstatic, she doesn’t at first notice the light tap at the door.

“Yousa, are you ready?” Ridge’s voice floats through the door.

“Yeah!” she calls, still admiring herself. She’s even done her hair up a little bit: two braids that she pulled to the back of her head and tied with a tiny ribbon she found while the rest of her hair is loose. It’s pretty cute.

The bedroom door opens, revealing Ridge in a sweater he hadn’t had on before. “Are you ready to hang out now or--” He cuts himself off, mildly embarrassed.

Yousa follows his gaze: her shirt or, more specifically, her chest. She immediately crosses her arms over herself, equally as embarrassed and awkward. She can feel her face turning pink.

“S-Sorry I--” Ridge stammers, looking anywhere but at her. “I-I didn’t know you were still changing, I’ll come back--”

“No, no I’m done,” Yousa interrupts, looking at her bare feet. “I just need shoes.”

Ridge hovers in the threshold, physically swaying between the hall and the bedroom. He finally chooses to enter, just barely brushing past her and stooping to pick up the shoes she had been admiring earlier. “These are pretty neutral--I’ve seen everyone wear them out.” They’re plain black (unsurprising at this point) and flat, covering the toes, sides of the foot, and heel. 

“Sure, I’ll take those.” They slip on easily. She feels complete now that she’s got a full outfit. The civilian clothing feels so strange on her skin; it’s a mass of different textures and fits that she knows will take some time to get used to. The clothing is nowhere near as heavy as her armor and it’s five times as flexible. She rotates her hips a bit, testing her new freedom.

“Do you, uh, want a sweater?” Ridge offers, making vague hand motions towards her chest.

She ducks her head, self-conscious. “Is...is it that obvious?” Maybe she should change her clothes.

“No no no, it’s not that…” Ridge’s eyes list to the left, trailing up and down the wall. “In case you get cold.”

Yousa looks down at her boobs and back up at Ridge. “What happens when I get cold?” She doesn’t get cold easily so she has no clue what he’s talking about.

Ridge groans, not in an annoyed way but an I’m-suddenly-very-uncomfortable way. “When uh, boobs get a certain size…” he chokes out, squirming in his place, “And then it gets cold, they…”

Yousa, impatient, prompts him on. “What happens?” Will they shrink or something? Get bigger? Even though she hopes for that, she doesn’t exactly want it happening in public.

All apprehension leaves him. “Your nipples might get hard, Yousa, and they’ll show through that shirt.”

Her eyes go wide, completely stunned. _Hard?_ “You’re being serious?”

“You’ve...never heard of that happening? At all?”

“No.”

“Just...take the sweater, just in case.” He pulls one off a hanger in the closet and tosses it to her. He leads her out of the room and down the stairs, chattering as if they hadn’t just had the most awkward conversation in the galaxy.

Yousa and Pelly lock eyes on her way out. She’s sitting cross-legged on their couch, a portable computer carefully balanced on her lap. Her eyes take in Yousa’s body, take in her long hair and boyfriend clothes and her clear attempt at being feminine with whatever she can muster together. The last thing Pelly looks at is Yousa’s nails--her light pink, chipped-paint fingernails. The smile she gives is stiff, false, fake, forced. It’s not sincere--she’s not seeing the person Yousa, she’s seeing her own lower version: a man and soldier who’s supposed to be as masculine as her boyfriend but who is failing miserably, wishing to be a woman instead of what he was born as.

Yousa does her best to return the smile, but inside, her heart sinks.

OoOoOoO  


They go to the nail salon first. Amazingly enough, both Ridge and Yousa go to the same hair/nail salon for their high maintenance needs--and they’re both greeted loudly by the women at their stations.

“Ridge! It’s been so long!” One woman crows, stepping away from the front desk to grab his hand. It’s covered in tattoos--the both of them are. She traces what looks like a beetle on his skin. “New tattoo?”

“Yeah, just two weeks ago,” he answers, allowing her to examine the bug.

“Tattoos are bad for you!” she admonishes, but she nonetheless leads him by the hand to an empty nail station.

Another woman approaches Yousa. “Honey, it’s been too long--here for your hair?” She grabs a lock and examines the strands for split ends. She clucks and shakes her head when she sees the damage.

“It’s cause I’m stressed, Nina,” Yousa says defensively. “But I’m here for a pedicure anyway, so--”

“Oh, a pedicure!” Nina practically crows, cutting off Yousa mid-sentence. “C’mere, we have a station open.”

And so Yousa gets a pedicure and is later joined by Ridge, who admires his new perfectly black nails. The two soak their toes together and talk about mild things--vague mentions of the war, what they plan to eat later, and their mutual hatred of Cutter and Ro.

After the nail salon, they go to a diner that Ridge says is “better than the crap they get on the _Valiant_ and on base.”  

The diner isn’t small, but it isn’t big either. There are big glass windows that allowed people from the street to look into the building, and they can even see what the chefs are cooking as they do it. The seats--two wide, plush things to a table--are blue and purple. It’s mildly crowded, filled to the brim with sounds Yousa isn’t used to: myriad voices in different pitches, depths, tones, and accents; the sounds of knives on chopping boards and spatulas on wide, flat, cook tops; and the weird but funky music playing softly over hidden speakers. 

And there’s Yousa, standing in front of the sliding doors in borrowed civilian clothing, with her hair down and long and lips pink from a tube of lip gloss Ridge had picked up from a drugstore. No one notices her. 

Ridge doesn’t give her time to process her new existence in the local diner. He nudges her into the nearest booth, the cushions squeaking under their butts. He passes her a plastoid-covered menu with a cartoon sandwich on it. “You can get whatever you want, but I’d stay away from the soups because they never add salt.” 

Yousa glances at each of the categories on the menu. There’s salad, which she thinks is generally healthy, but she doesn’t recognize half the things they’ve put in them and has no clue what “dressing” is. Next is hot sandwiches, which look more appealing than the salads. Some have cheese while others don’t, and some come with crispy-fried topas. Then there’s cold sandwiches, “platters” that are just piles of different foods, soups, and noodles. The last two categories are drinks and desserts, which Yousa takes an immediate interest in. 

“You can get two things, if you like,” Ridge says from across the table. “I’m gonna order nuna fingers for us to start.” 

_Nuna fingers?_ “Nuna don’t have fingers,” Yousa says. The idea of nuna having fingers is gross and creepy.

“No, not--” Ridge snorts, then blows into full-out laughter. “They’re not _actual_ fingers--they just cut them into strips and cook them like that.”

Okay, that makes more sense. When the waiter comes by to take their order, he writes down what Ridge wants: a hot sandwich, fried topas, and nuna fingers (with four different kinds of dipping sauces). He gets fruit punch as a drink. 

Then, the waiter turns to Yousa. “And what would you like, sir?” He stands there, smiling politely with his pen in hand. 

Her face darkens, her mood souring instantly. The waiter doesn’t notice. “A number two sandwich, red salad, and sweet tea, please,” she says, eyes focused on the blue-speckled table. He nods, smiles again, and walks off with their orders. 

Ridge looks at her with pity. “Don’t be sad, Yousa,” he says. “He just didn’t know.” 

“Because he can’t tell,” Yousa says, her mood dampening even more. She was having _fun_ , enjoying herself on her night out with Ridge. Now she feels how she always does in her body: out-of-place, strange, _wrong_. Like things don’t fit and she’s a walking lie in someone else’s clothing.

It’s amazing how just one little word can affect her like that. It’s why she had made the new shinies call her anything _but_ “sir”--but it doesn’t make a difference, does it, if most people would assume she’s a man? 

The gears in Ridge’s brain are actively turning, she can tell. He places the menu down on the table, setting his hands before him like he’s ready to give her a sensitive but important talk. “Yousa...” he says, “he just didn’t know--cheer up.” 

As if “cheer up” would magically cure her dysphoria. Not only is she depressed, but now she’s also annoyed. “If it were that easy, I would have been over it by now,” she snaps, then immediately feels guilty for it.

“I’m sorry,” Ridge says--he actually _apologizes_ \--”I didn’t realize that’s how bad it was for you,” he continues.

The guilt is a tiny black hole in her stomach. “I didn’t mean to snap,” she mutters. “I’m just…” 

He shakes his head. “It’s alright--but I kinda have a question,” he says, pulling his thumbs. 

Yousa doesn’t say anything, just stares until he works up the courage to ask her. _Please don’t let it be anything weird_. 

“When did you first find out that you felt like this? That...you wanted to be a girl?” he asks, finally looking up at her. 

Internally, she freezes; when _had_ she begun to feel like this, like her body was wrong and she had to change it? She tries to think back to her earliest memories and remembers that she’s had dreams where she was General Shaak Ti on Kamino or one of the few female bounty hunter trainers. As a child, she couldn’t have possibly identified her feelings--the closest she got was inquiring about female puberty to the point that the Kaminoans told her to stop asking so many questions. 

She’s always felt like this, then. It just got stronger when she left Kamino and started meeting civilians. “I’m not really sure,” she lies. “It started around when I joined the 686th, I think. I remember seeing General Dei and thinking ‘I want to be her’.” She shrugs.

“Everyone wants to be her,” he says, but not in a dismissive tone. It’s true: _everyone_ wants to be their General at some point, even just a little bit--and everyone has a crush on their general at some point, too. It’s only natural.

“She’s really cool,” Yousa agrees. 

General Dei is one of the few Jedi who actually fully, completely sees the clones as individual people. She’s lax with titles, preferring the be called “miss” or just by her last name, and she swears and jokes around just as much as the clones do. She’s even hugged some clones before, the reactions always being hilarious: either utter shock and surprise or mildly guilty indulgence from the physical contact shown by their pretty general. 

She’s generally unlike any usual Jedi--loud, impulsive, emotional, and at times selfish--which Yousa guesses is part of what makes her so attractive. She’s also tall and beautiful, with heavy curves in every place that Yousa dreams of having them. She sighs; some things may just remain dreams. 

Ridge leans in then, almost in a conspiratorial sort of way. Yousa mimics him on impulse. “And I’m curious,” he nearly whispers, “but I don’t want to jump to conclusions…” His tattooed fingers grip the edge of the table. 

Knots form in her stomach, but she remains silent. 

“You’ve, uh…” His eyes flick down to her chest, briefly. “You’ve started taking hormones?” 

Her eyes slide away from his face and look out the window, her lips working as she formulates a response. “ _Don’t_ tell anyone, but yes,” she answers, deciding she can trust him.  

He nods like he’s agreeing with her on the weather. A bit more relaxed now, he leans away from the center of the table. “How long have you been taking them?” 

“Seven months.” There are results, but not to the extent that she would like. So far, her hips hurt, she’s moody and hungry _constantly_ , and there’s scarcely any development in the chest department. If she could afford to buy one, her lifty would be the smallest available cup size. At least she can’t grow a beard anymore. 

But, there are other differences that are obvious and a lot more difficult to hide. All the fat in her body is moving to her lower half, and her voracious appetite is only aiding it. She does extra squats and leg exercises to hide the fact that her butt is getting bigger, but there’s a point that she’ll have to stop working out. What worries her is that soon, her armor will stop fitting. 

Cutter is picking up on the changes, too. Every new development in her body is just a bigger warning sign to him that one of his charges is doing something illegal. He’s noticed Yousa’s new shyness, her unwillingness to use the showers or change at the same time as the rest of the squad--how she turns around and huddles in a corner when she has to remove her shirt; he’ll stare too hard sometimes, and Yousa’s anxiety will spike with the terrifying thought that he’s finally figured it out and he’s going to report her for “illicit bodily modifications”, as stated by the regs.

She knows what the punishment will be if she’s caught. The changes she’s making to her body are irreversible.

“ _That_ long?” he asks, amazed. He’s wondering how she’s getting them, he can tell. The answer: Cord. He gets everything she needs and then some, but she has no clue how.

The food arrives then, along with the waiter _and_ a waitress, it’s so much. They carefully lay everything out on the table, say “Enjoy your meal!” and leave. 

But Yousa can’t enjoy the idea of food--not right then, anyway. Being misgendered when she’s trying her hardest to pass as at least mildly feminine hurts in a way that she can’t describe but knows she hates.

Yousa makes a lame attempt to cheer herself up; _There’ll be a day when you’re a woman and no one would even_ guess _you used to look like this_. It doesn’t alleviate the negativity, but at least she can fantasize about what her outfits would look like. 

She lets her mind wander, back only a few years til she remembers a day when they were cadets, biologically six or seven, and trying to figure out what exactly a girl was in the middle of their noonday meal.

OoOoO

They had learned that girls had XX and boys had XY, but as they were children and had no knowledge of what any of that meant, the information wasn’t important to them. 

Cutter had been the first to bring it up, roughly dropping his spoon into his bowl of mush. “How come General _Tie_ ”--He pronounces it with a long “i” sound--“Is a girl and we’re all boys?”

This causes the table to erupt in a burst of loud chatter and semi-fights before it calms down again. “I think that you have to be a Jedi to be a girl,” Ro had said after barely swallowing the food in his mouth. “‘Cause if you looked at Master Ti, she’s a Jedi _and_ a girl.”

The table makes noises of assent, and the matter seems done until another cadet--Yousa can’t remember who--makes another valid point. “But there are boy Jedi, too!”

This starts up another raucous debate until Cutter spoke up again. “I think girls just have different bodies,” he said, waving his spoon in the air. “‘Cause if you look at General Tie, her chest is different." 

Of course, they all knew there was something different about General Ti. Her voice was higher when all the older clones had deep voices, and her chest was a different shape--none of them knew why, but they all agreed that it was because she was a “girl”.

“But _why_ is it like that?” another piped up. “Like, what if one day I looked like General Ti--would I just be a girl now?”

“You’d be a girl _and_ a Jedi, probably,” Ro answered like it’s common sense.

“You’d have to walk around like this--” A fourth cadet tipped his chin up just slightly and raised his eyebrows as high as possible. He put the tips of his fingers together and squared his shoulders. “You have to be calm all the time and say stuff that doesn’t make sense.”

“Drill Sergeant Aptuvo said that girls all look different,” Yousa said suddenly. They had all listened to her because that drill sergeant was one of the few female non-Kaminoans they had really met (at that point in their lives)--and she had once called Yousa “bright and creative” after a test, giving her automatic authority over the conversation.

“She says that some girls are tall and skinny and other ones are short and fat,” Yousa stated definitively. She felt proud that she had the center of attention and knew all of this information. “And that fat makes your boobs bigger.”

“What are ‘boobs’?”

“I think it’s the thing that makes Master Ti’s chest different.”

So, the group came to a consensus: if you were fat, your boobs would make your chest look different and bigger and then you’d be a girl--and probably also a Jedi.

It hadn’t mattered to Yousa what made girls girls and boy boys; it was in that instant when, thinking about General Ti and Sergeant Aptuvo, Yousa had realized she wanted to be a girl.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features drama and good/bad news for Yousa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made this extra-long since I couldn't find where to cut it.

It doesn’t take long for Yousa’s mind to be drawn back to the meal on the plates before her--her appetite is through the roof. Ridge seems to be of the same mind, because neither of them has to think: they each cut their sandwich in half and place it on the other’s plate, sharing their meals. Yousa snatches one of Ridge’s fried topas first. It mildly salty, crunchy on the outside and soft and hot on the inside. It’s  _ good _ \--good enough for her to take more until Ridge yells at her to stop. She also likes the salad--she can see why there were so many advertisements about it at Ridge’s apartment.

All of the food tastes amazing. By the end of the meal, she’s too full to move and she feels like she’s been exposed to an entirely different world. 

“Did you like it?” Ridge asks, smiling at Yousa’s reclined figure in the seat. 

She doesn’t even say anything, just smiles stupidly and nods her head. She doesn’t know what the desert had been, but she wants to marry it. 

The two pay and leave the diner--Yousa following just behind Ridge--drinking in all of the new sights, sounds, and smells around her. The 686th could get crowded--any battalion that does both civilian relief and battles specifically rid areas of droids would be big--but this was new type of crowded. Everyone moves in opposing directions yet as one unit, no one knowing or caring about the person directly in front of or behind them. That’s life for these civilians: worry about yourself and your business only.

It’s different on a ship where everyone looks the same and has the same goals. Random clones know things about you whether you like it or not, because there’s no such thing as privacy in a clone’s life--the showers don’t even have curtains. Whatever you think, whatever you  _ feel _ is heard by everyone around you. It would be weird if Yousa wasn’t so used to it already.

It’s the lack of personal privacy that made it so easy for everyone to figure out she’s “different”. Yousa apparently walks, talks, and acts like General Dei--or tries to, at least. She gesticulates and matches the General’s voice and cadence; she even attempts the same form of humor. Cutter and her squad more or less know what’s up with her, but anything anyone thinks they know is just information from the rumor mill her squad personally mans.

Ridge pulls up next to a little convenience store on the corner of two intersecting streets. It’s flickering neon sign reads “O-P-E” instead of “open”, and a second and third sign advertise hot breakfast sandwiches and cold icecream. When they walk through the door, a bell rings. He takes them both down several aisles til they’re at the far left corner of the mart. The shelves are covered in women’s personal hygiene and beauty supplies. 

Ridge doesn’t even give a warning. “You want some makeup or something? There’s lipgloss, eyeshadow…”

Yousa inches up to the shelves lined with various kinds of makeup, careful not to breathe too hard on the display. She picks up a pink tube. “I can’t wear eyeshadow.” Everyone would see it and her squad would riot.

“Mascara, then?” He pronounces it wrong.

Yousa compares two colors and puts down the browner one. Then, she debates between two differing shades of pink. “Can I get both?” Her heart skips a beat in excitement.

“Sure,” Ridge says. “I don’t see why not.”

In total, it costs only four credits. By the time they head back to his apartment, it’s turning dark outside. With the setting sun goes Yousa’s excitement for the day, dread at having to go back to base settling on top of the food in her stomach. Ridge jiggles the key in the lock, opening the door and poking his head inside the apartment. His girlfriend is still on the couch; she smiles when she sees him, but it falters when her eyes land on Yousa.

Yousa attempts camaraderie again; she waves. She barely gets a wave back.

There’s a change in Ridge that Yousa is actually suprised to see. His stance, how he walks, and even the way he talks shifts as if he’s turning into an entirely new person. The pitch of his voice is different, as well--much less clipped and a slightly different accent. “What are you watching, babe?” he asks upon entering, his hands finding their way into his pockets.

“It’s just the news.” Finally, she properly acknowledges Yousa’s existence. “Hey,” she greets.

And just like that, Ridge changes again. It’s like he forgot Yousa was even there.

OoOoOoO

Yousa doesn’t remember much. She started heading back to the base after feeling like too much of a third wheel; Ridge hadn’t followed her, so she assumed that he would be sleeping with his girlfriend that night instead of the clones.

But then there are vague memories plaguing her mind that she can’t seem to place. She’s seeing Ridge again and they’re going somewhere. She meets people she doesn’t recognize. There’s alcohol--but she can’t get past that because that’s where her memory cuts off.

Groaning, Yousa turns her head and is confused to feel sharp pain coming from her ears. Sitting up, she pinches her ear lobe, hissing loudly when pain flares up in response.  _ What the hell? _

“Rise n’ shine, Yousa,” another bunk calls. She ignores whoever it is, trekking to the lone (stolen) mirror hanging on the wall. Pulling her hair out of her face, she holds back a sharp gasp, staring in confusion at her ear.

An earring.

A purple dot earring.

Tentatively, Yousa touches her other ear and gets the same feeling.  _ When the fuck-- _ what _ the fuck?! _ The earrings are cute, but her earlobes are red and angry, swollen because she’s never pierced herself before--and she hadn’t even thought she was about to start, either.

It explains the ear aches, but Yousa doesn’t know how she’s going to hide this from her squad. She has to put her hair up to keep it out of her face and prevent people from randomly stroking it, but that means revealing that she has earrings in the first place. Yousa dreads how she imagines her squad will react when they find out. It’s against the regs, these kinds of body modifications.

But then again, Ridge has  _ multiple _ piercings in his ears and face, and nobody bothers him for them--not even Commander Bliz, who’s normally a stickler for (certain) regs.

The sound of bodies beginning to shuffle behind her wakes her up. Dropping her hair, she starts straightening out her bunk, pretending that she isn’t hungover and hiding the result of reckless behavior. A small white bottle rolls out from under the blanket: ear-care solution to put on her new piercings. She keeps quiet, her back turned to the rest of the squad to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She places the bottle in her trunk.

“Heard you went out yesterday, Yousa--didn’t come back til like 0100 hours,” Fortaj says in what could be considered a dry conversation starter. “You had fun on your outing with Ridge?” He’s the only one to ever ask questions like that with genuine interest, despite never talking much to begin with. 

“Yeah,” she answers carefully, minding that her hair efficiently covers her ears. She adds some other details of her wild night with Ridge, cautiously leaving out incriminating information. “I have a hangover.” Hopefully, that would suffice. 

It doesn’t. “That’s too bad, Yousa,” Cutter says, rising and stretching out his long limbs. He stifles a long-held yawn, swinging his legs over the bunk. “Headaches don’t get you a day off.”

Irritation crawls up Yousa’s spine. “I wasn’t trying to get a day off,  _ sir _ ,” she says. She gathers her armor in a duffel before anyone else can wake up and say something stupid.

The showers in the medical bay are the only place Yousa can be naked and safe. She strips out of her underclothes and climbs under the stream, careful to keep her tied-up hair from getting wet. Yousa stands there under the spray for a few minutes, looking down at her body, from her six pack (not as strong as it used to be) to the thin trail of hair that started under her navel and lead to thicker, darker hair. 

Clones weren’t overtly hairy. Testosterone would obviously make body hair a noticeable amount, but it was different between clones. Some couldn’t grow beards while others couldn’t stop shaving. The hairiest clone Yousa knew of was the heavy gunner for Crusade Squad named Marik. His was…a weird amount for a clone.

Lucky her that one month on estrogen and androgen blockers made growing a beard difficult and several months is thinning out the fuzz on her arms and the rest of her body. She shaves her face every few weeks, but even that is starting to lose frequency. Yousa looks down at her legs. She might shave them soon, when she had gathered enough shaving sticks and shaving gel from the showers. It was a process, but the end result was nice--even if she did end up with a lot of cuts on her skin, especially over her knees and shins. She did it for both the femininity but for the time killing and the weird smoothness of her skin afterwards.

Yousa doesn’t always feel as bothered by her body hair--of course, because  _ all _ human women have body hair--but some days she wishes she were as smooth as the models in the magazines she has.

Sufficiently wet, Yousa scrubs. The rooms beyond the triage area had normally two or three beds and one shower; she could be alone and undisturbed for however long she needed. The privacy is strange considering how much clones share

Someone taps on the refresher door; she nearly jumps out of her skin. Annoyed, Yousa calls out to the intruder. “Who is it?”

“It’s Cord,” answers Cord. “I have some good news for you, Yousa.” He normally only speaks in a mild monotone with little to no inflection in his voice. Years of trying to keep panicked injured calm would do that to a person; the even, dually mellow and urgent voice of medics was one that belied their true emotions. The newly optimistic--even eager--undertone in Cord’s voice is what makes Yousa turn off the shower, still covered in soft soap suds.

“What?”

“Finish showering,” he says. “I’ll tell you when you get out.”

There’s that eager, giddy tone again. Yousa quickly rinses off, stepping into the empty, steamy refresher and even emptier room. Her duffel with her armor, lotion, and towel has been moved from the floor to one of the beds. She dries off, rubs the lotion, and redresses practically within a minute, her excitement for Cord’s “good news” growing with the weight of the plastoid armor on her body.

Yousa enters the hallway and is immediately accosted by Cord himself. For a second time, she jumps out of her skin

“Follow me,” the medic’s cordial tone is back, perhaps because they’re not in private anymore. Yousa follows him to the check up room where she’s normally examined to track her progress. 

Once Cord crosses the threshold, he starts to talk. “You’ve been taking two pills: one for estrogen and the other for androgen suppressants.”

She can’t tell if it’s a question or not, so she answers in the affirmative. 

“Well--” He opens a cabinet, pulls out a small white case from the back with a logo on it she doesn’t recognize. “I was talking to my contact, and I have something better and far more efficient than oral pills.” Cord removes the lid.

Yousa peers into the crate, unsure of what she’s seeing. They look like vials or syringes with a clear goldish liquid inside them. The glass containers clink when they touch. “What is it?” She feels it’s important.

“This is the estrogen booster and androgen suppressors in one shot. No more pills--just one in alternating thighs once a week; it works faster and longer than the oral medications.”

Yousa takes another look at the crate, unbelieving. “Wait so--”

“These are the same drugs civilian women on hormone replacement take. They’re not synthetic--they’re  _ real _ .”

Her ears automatically cut out anything else he has to say. The vials are slim and wobble in their separate holders. The logo on the side of the crate is pink and of--what looks like--a woman curving into a circle. The text underneath reads “Amassi Genetics and Hormone Counseling”. 

They’re  _ real _ . 

Yousa’s chest tightens like she’s going to cry. Instead, she throws her arms around Cord’s neck and doesn’t let go. He’d been rambling on about bone development and so gasped rather loudly, unused to such open displays of affection. But his voice is gently jovial. “I’m glad you like them.”

He leads her over to the exam bed, makes her sit on its stiff mattress. In true medic fashion, he pulls up a chair and sits across from her. “I need to go over the specifics with you,” he says, now more serious. “These new hormones are better, yes, but they’re also faster acting. You’ll likely notice a ‘growth spurt’--your breasts will probably jump in size and you’ll build up fat along the lower half of your body.”

“I’m already doing that,” Yousa says, eyes wandering to the syringes again. They’re already noticeable through her shirt. For a while, everyone had thought that her pecs were just big; they’ve changed shape now to look more like the real things, however.

“I know, but this will be a more noticeable amount. Essentially, you’ll start to look more womanly.” She can see him cross that off his mental checklist and move onto the next item. “These hormones are not the strongest available--those tend to be reserved for women who’ve had oophorectomies or have issues with their thyroid gland--”

Her eyes glaze over. He can tell he’s losing her. “Basically,” he restarts, “they’re not the strongest, but they’re high up. They are tailored to your height, weight, and active lifestyle.”

That sounded good. Yousa’s stomach flits with excitement at the idea of getting  _ real _ medicine, with  _ real _ results. “What else is there?”

“Your appetite will likely remain the same, so that means you’ll continue to gain weight,” he adds. “And these will slow the fusing of your growth plates.”

She remembers learning about growth plates on Kamino--when they fused, you stopped growing. For males, puberty ends around the biological age of 24, sometimes younger.

“So that means your hips could get wider, Yousa. You’re not yet at the age where they’ve fused--that gives your more time for your lower half to shape, as well.”

Yousa’s chest practically blooms with delight. She would cry with gratitude if she wasn’t shaking so hard in excitement. 

“Have you taken your pills yet, today?” he asks, rising from his chair.

“Came straight here to shower once I woke up.” The two bottles still sit in her trunk, disguised as daily supplements prescribed to her by the medic himself.

That jovial note again. “Then you can actually start today. I’ll do some blood work first, but you should be fine.”

She is fine; Cord shows Yousa how to inject the estrogen with a dud, then gives her a real one to do herself. She swabs the area with an alcohol patch and removes the cap to the needle. The sharp pain in the top of her thigh is nothing compared to the euphoria that comes once she pushes all the hormones in. Yousa falls backward on the bed feeling as if she’s floating. Her skin is warm, with a comfortable tingle running through her nerves.

_ Kriff _ , this feels good.

“Would you describe this sensation as euphoric?” Cord asks her, interrupting her feel-good bubble. 

“Yeah…” she semi-mumbles--or maybe she just says it regularly. Yousa just feels so happy at the moment that she doesn’t care what she says or how she says it. She hasn’t felt this way, so joyous and content, since...since never. 

Cord tries his best to interrupt her high. “It’s not going to happen every time, be aware. Your body will grow accustomed to--”

She tunes him out. The feeling doesn’t last long after that, unfortunately. It dissipates; she floats back to the real world. “Can’t wait til I can get my next one,” she says immediately.

“ _ Don’t _ medicate yourself. You can only take as prescribed.” There’s a “please” in there somewhere, she knows it. “You...pierced your ears?” Just barely, his heads tips to one side in a display of curiosity she’s never seen on him before.

Yousa’s fingers flit up to her lobes, flinch away at the ever-present soreness. “I was drunk with Ridge.”

Although he doesn’t actually do it, she hears Cord sigh. Cord and Ridge know each other; Cord has heard things from Ridge. Deep things. Secret things. Ridge didn’t open up to  _ anyone _ . He’s notorious for it in the 686th. He’s called a squad-jumper, a ghoster, a clone who isn’t attached to any one squad and who uses and throws away brothers like toilet paper. He’ll befriend shinies and get them nice things before dumping them away when he gets bored. Unfortunately for them, they’ve already been pulled in by his amazing glamor; in fights and skirmishes, they take his side--they do almost whatever he wants, which allows him to be as lazy has possible for a clone.

_ Apa’ke _ , he’s called in their language. A brother who’s a loner and too independent. A drifter: at risk for making himself an  _ o’yot, _ a civilian. The veterans don’t like him. 

Or he  _ was _ called  _ apa’ke.  _ Ridge has money, sweets, a girlfriend, and the favor of the general; he’s a god in their society, right at the top and looking down at everyone else.

_ What if he’s using you? _ The thought creeps up and ambushes her. She hadn’t ever considered it--the idea that she could possibly be just another used tissue for him. Her stomach curls.

Yousa could ask Cord--he would know, what with how much they share with each other. Cord is the only clone in the entirety of the 686th to have any form of an emotional bond with Ridge, which no one would have expected either of them to be able to do; they so very rarely mingle with the others.

_ They’re not the only ones _ . But her situation is different. 

If Ridge is using Yousa, then fine. Anything to avoid interacting with Cutter and Ro.

 

OoOoO

 

Her squad figures out Yousa had pierced her ears the night before. Cutter holds the small pack of extra earrings like a weapon between his fingers; they rattle against each other, despite their small sizes, twinkling in the fluorescent light. There are eight total. They all know she’s wearing the last pair. 

“Piercings are against the Rules and Regulations of Conduct, Yousa,” Cutter says as if the full name would make it mean more.

Yousa stares hard past his shoulder, her hands folded in her lap. Stomach tight, she says nothing.

He makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. “Take them  _ out _ .” An order.

“Can’t,” she answers, refusing to meet his eyes. She will not let them have this one.

“Where were you pierced that you can’t take them out?” Cutter demands. 

“My tits.”

Cutter’s rough hand grabs her hair, yanking it upward and violently jerking her head with it. She yelps when it touches her earlobe, pain running down a nerve in her face. Yousa’s skin burns.

All of Cutter’s patience combusts in an instant. He leans down close, so near that Yousa can feel the nasty heat from his breath. “You do  _ not _ speak to your Sergeant like that,” he growls, voice near to yelling. “You either show me the respect I deserve, or--”

Yousa scoffs, even with her hair still in his grasp. “Respect? You don’t respect me or anyone else in this squad,” she says, “don’t think you’re getting any  _ fucking  _ respect from me--”

“Don’t you curse at m--”

“You like to act like you rule the galaxy, Cutter!” she interrupts. “You want everyone to lick your codpiece and suck up to you as if you’ve done anything to earn it--” Her sharp cry of pain cuts her off. He’s tightened his hold on her hair, pulling hard enough to keep her knees off the ground and her neck at a crooked angle. Her eyes sting with tears.

“You want everyone to pity you, Yousa! You do nothing but break regs and then mope about it and cry when someone tells you that that’s wrong,” Cutter yells back. “You bitch and moan to everyone on this fucking ship about how much you hate us--and don’t,” he adds when he sees she’s going to cut in, “pretend like you don’t. You think I wouldn’t have heard by now how much you slander your own squad’s name to everything that breathes?”

Yousa’s voice dies inside her, her skin aflame with anger and embarrassment. All she can do is breathe angrily. 

“This is not how brothers act, Yousa,” he continues. And she knows he sees the look on her face because he says, “Yes, brothers--whether you like it or not.”

A tight, slimy hand grips Yousa’s stomach. She doesn’t say anything. Cutter has relaxed enough to let her knees touch the floor, but he has not let go yet.

“You’ve been angry about kriff knows what since Kamino--never a day where you could appreciate any one of us.” Cutter’s eye lands on her brimming tears that threaten to spill over. He nearly smiles. “What? Upset that you’re not hearing what you want, for once?”

Her ears are throbbing with pain. “I’ll return the earrings,” she mumbles lamely, softly. Yousa’s throat tightens to a pinhole, her neck screaming for relief.   


“It’s not about the kriffing earrings, Yousa! It is about  _ respect! _ ” Cutters shouts. She flinches.  “Respect for your  _ brothers _ . Respect for  _ authority _ \--respect for  _ yourself _ ! Don’t go thinking you can break regs and piss on the floor as much as you want without consequences,” he growls, leaning in close to her. She wants to lean back, but she can’t. Even though he’s still full of rage, she catches the satisfaction in his eyes. 

“You know what?” he asks. No answer from anyone. “I’m going to be nice.” He says it like he’s giving a generous gift.

The mood shift startles Yousa, triggering every warning flare in her system. She can  _ sense _ that what he will say next won’t be favorable to her, won’t serve any purpose but to blow up his ego and make him feel like he’s in charge again. 

“Cut your hair,” he starts. “ _ Cut it. _ Take the piercings out. Hit the weights, for kriff’s sake. You’re getting fat.” He releases her hair, letting her fall to the ground like a doll. Yousa don’t move. She stays there, refusing to meet his eyes. “This complex you have is going too far.”

So her hormones are making noticeable differences. Yousa isn’t sure whether to celebrate or cry. She must have mumbled something, said something under her breath, but she can’t remember what it was. Her entire squad is yelling at her now, swearing, scolding, cursing, blaming. Their angry voices blend into one horrid noise that whirls around her head.

Yousa shoves her mind so far into herself that she’s afraid she might damage something. She stands abruptly; three of the voices cut themselves off, fearing confrontation. Only Cutter continues. “Where are you going?” he demands.

Somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere. “I’m leaving,” is all she says, however, and she lets their furious words follow her out the door.

All this over earrings.

 

OoOoOoO

 

She finds herself in a closet, again. She’s on her side, on a cot that shouldn’t be in there, resting her head and neck on a pillow that was probably stolen.

Her hair lays all over the place, spilling over over the cot’s mattress and hanging down the sides like black vines. Her head and neck throb with pain. She groans softly, pressing her fingers into the pressure points.

At least she didn’t cry this time.

The closet door opens with a  _ shh _ , alerting her that someone was coming in and was likely to comment on her presence there. Fine. Let them.

Boots step across the metal floor; armor creaks as the owner squats down beside her bunk. 

She waits.

A cool, gloved hand gently pushes the hair out of her face, gathering it at the back of her head. It pauses.

She sighs. “What?” 

“You do this when you’re stressed,” Fortaj says, separating and braiding a section. “You undo and do it again til you’ve calmed down.”

_ She _ didn’t even know she did that. Yousa doesn’t look at him; she keeps her eyes closed, waiting for him to say something.

“He shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.” Fortaj stops braiding. “You didn’t deserve any of that.”

Finally, she looks at him. “You didn’t stop them.” 

Fortaj pauses. When she closes her eyes again, he leaves.


	10. NOTICE

Because i'm petty, I'm going to do this every time someone tries to fight me on clones being trans/gay/anything but straight macho men.

  


Clones have absolutely no concept of sexism or gender-bias, especially not the European kind.

They were taught by drill sergeants of both/multiple genders (depending on what culture they’re from) and definitely would have been taught by women. They don’t know about stereotypes for women or believe in any of that “men have to me masculinescaryviolent” bull that lots of fanboys want to push. They would likely just automatically reject any sexist suggestions teachers tried to make to them.

Kaminoans definitely WOULD NOT have our concept of sexism or gender bias. They do not interact with other people, and I would not be surprised if the clone project was their first extensive interaction with non-Kaminoans of multiple species. If their society has sexism (I honestly feel like it wouldn’t) then I highly doubt any of it would reach and/or influence the clones and how they viewed gender.

They have no concept of masculine and feminine within their society. It helps that it’s mostly males anyway, but they simply wouldn’t see a use for it.

So they therefore don’t have a concept of “girly”. If they come across something a civilian does that they like, they could probably just adopt it without any regard to how men are “supposed” to act. I feel like they would be highly attracted to color because of all the white they’ve always been surrounded by. Frankly I think the only thing preventing them from wearing what they want (besides the obvious) would be either plain personal choice or social stigma.

The Kaminoans also don’t have a concept of girly (or I highly doubt they do). They don’t have an interest in the clones’ cultures or personal feelings about gender and gender expression. If a clone is given the opportunity to say that he like how women’s fashion looks or that he likes how make up looks, are they gonna care? No. They want the “product” to be performing as efficiently as possible, so personal feelings about Vera Wang would be the least of their problems.

With no concept of “masculinity” or femininity as we understand it, the clones are then free to explore and express their preferred genders or gender expressions however they want (mentally).

The Kaminoans also don’t care who they’re attracted to. There would be absolutely no practical need to ask the clones who they’re sexually and/or romantically attracted to. Along with the gender roles, you wouldn’t get gay or bi clones who act any different from the straight ones, I guess besides being turned on by the different dirty holozines that older clones bring back.

So no clones would act girly or be overtly masculine or anything like that. Kaminoans would have 0 interest in their genders or sexualities because a) clones wouldn’t be talking to them about that, and b) being gay or trans doesn’t in ANY WAY affect their performance as soldiers. Sexuality and gender identity have zilch to do with whether or not they can complete trials or reload guns efficiently enough to survive battle. The Kaminoans don’t even want the clones to be in relationships to begin with, so any attraction a clone DOES feel will be met with “Your duty is to the republic, not for reproduction.” Which is true.

So gay clones and trans clones can exist–they DO exist. I want fanfic writers and commenters to stop acting like the Kaminoans give a hoot about how a clones acts in terms of gender expression or sexuality. They don’t. They can’t. It’s irrelevant. Stop fucking telling me gay and trans clones would have been culled for “deviation” I highly doubt the walking Q-tips even gave half a shit about Jango’s sexuality or gender.

  


PS: Genetics don't work how you think they do. You can't clone sexuality and genders, but genes are an important factors--other important factors include upbringing and hormones.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, nothing much happens here.

The door opens again. Yousa tries to ignore the light it invites, but she's at the perfect angle for it to touch her face.

"Who-what are you-Yousa?" Ridge's voice calls out. She hears his armor scuffle against the floor as he kneels beside the cot. "Yousa? Are you okay? What happened?"

She opens her eyes; the look on his face is one she hasn't seen before on him. He's deeply concerned, worried, his brow creasing with the anxiety and his lips firmly planted. Somewhere inside, she's touched.

"What happened?" he repeats. His gaze on her is too strong; she closes her eyes again.

"Squad happened-found out I got my ears pierced and went off on me," Yousa answers. She rubs her neck with the memory. "Did you take me to a piercing parlor?"

He ignores her question. "Did they hurt you? Why are you rubbing your neck?" Ridge demands. "Yousa!"

"What?" she snaps back, bolting up to face him. "Yeah, my ass of a sergeant grabbed my hair and almost fucking broke my neck." The rush of energy makes her head throb. "Did you take me to a piercing parlor after the restaurant?" she demands.

"You were drunk and wanted your ears pierced. Quote: 'I'm getting hoops.'"

"Why the hell would you listen to me when I'm drunk?!"

"'Cause drunk Yousa's fun." Ridge lamely shrugs a shoulder. "There a reason you're in my closet?"

Yousa picks her head up, scans the small area. The space is wide enough to fit maybe three more cots side-to-side. There are eight unopened (she's assuming) crates total, four at the end of the cot she's on and four more in the same relative position on the other side. There is a ceiling light, but it's off; the room is completely dark.

There were things-personal items-in the closet, which Yousa guesses is what makes it "his". There's a discarded wrapper on the floor on the other side, huddled in the corner and flickering under the air from the vent. One of the crates, she realizes, has actually been opened; the sleeve of something clones don't wear hangs out of its slightly open mouth.

Ridge has a lot of  _things_. It's normal for clones to collect whatever little items they come across that they like-owning nothing, they tend to get attached to things they could call theirs: jewelry, unique civilian blankets, pieces of flimsi with drawings on them,  _anything_. Some even go so far as to use tattoos as a way of having something to own.

But the level that Ridge takes it to is extreme. He has piercings, tattoos-two things that are already considered much for a clone to have. Then there's all the food; he's always eating and munching on things that aren't served in the caf, and he gets wildly defensive whenever someone asks that he share it. He has a small music device that he either bought or stole from a civilian. All it does is play music, but he hates when someone other than him tries to touch it.

Clones are materialistic by nature, but not in the sense that civilians display-as in, they don't hoard with the intention to keep their piles forever. As soldiers, they can't afford the expectation that every little thing they own-if they ever come to own anything-will be with them til death. They'll hang onto something small, but they won't keep it from brothers and they won't expect to have anything more than those one or two items. Ridge is his own kind of materialistic, hiding everything he owns so as to keep it from other clones. It's socially rude not to share with a bother. He doesn't care.

All of the small signs of life may as well have made the closet his. Yosua sees that the sweater sleeve is dark blue and stained. "I'm avoiding my squad, like I said." She closes her eyes, rubs her scalp gingerly.

"If you want, you could start sleeping in here," he offers. "I sleep here mostly. There's food in that crate, if you want." He points to the crate at her feet.

With some difficulty, she sits up and looks at the crate. He removes the lid for her; she peers in. Brightly colored wrappers and containers stare back at her from their nest in about two other sweaters and a non-military regulation blanket.

 _Holy hell_. Yousa's eyes land on a small bag of chips. "Can I have that?" She points to it. Once she's given the okay, she rips into the bag of chips with a flavor she can't identify. They're okay.

"You could fit another one or two cots in here," Ridge says, pointing to the other wall. "But this one's mine. If you wanna take a nap, you can-for now. I'll be back." He leaves the closet.

Yousa does take a nap-after eating some more snacks. When she sleeps, she dreams of the fight she just had with her squad, except it's in black and white, she can't talk, and every noise sounds like it's being filtered through a dense bubble. When she wakes, she's still hungry.

Yousa creeps out into the hall, eyeing the empty space for any members of her squad. Seeing that it's clear, she strides down to the right, wheels the corner, and nearly body slams another clone.

It's Angel, but his hair's different-longer still, and lavender, oddly enough. The roots, however, are dark. His face is startled before he realizes who it is. "Yousa!" he exclaims like he hasn't seen her in years.

"Angel-how are you guys settling up?" In the few weeks that they've been with the 686th, their squad seems to have gained a significant amount of popularity. It probably helps that they decided to call themselves RAPTOR Squad. All of the members are friendly and quirky; the general is absolutely in love with them.

"We're doing alright, actually-I mean, Poindex almost got in a fight for asking too many questions, but we're fine," Angel answers, beaming at her. "But...how are  _you_?" He almost adds "sir" at the end before remembering, she can tell.

Yousa debates whether or not to be honest. "Could be better," she says, opting for the truth.

"Yeah, I heard your squad's a bunch of assholes," Angel responds, surprising her. "It was one of your guys that Poindex almost fought."

This is news to her, the fact that she's not the only one who despises Cutter and his lackeys. Yousa feels a little less alone.

"But anyway, the squad and I were headed to the weight room, if you wanted to come?" The kid has a hopeful look on his face.

Her stomach growls. "Sorry, can't-gotta find food." She can already hear Cutter's voice chastising her for not taking the opportunity to lose some weight. "Actually-yeah, I'll come with."

Exercising with RAPTOR Squad is much more fun than Yousa could have imagined. Their mini competitions aren't filled with malice or contempt the way her squad's are-and they don't judge Yousa's wanting to keep her sleeveless shirt on. Most clones would forgo the shirt because it's cumbersome and doesn't regulate heat well. For obvious reasons, Yousa can't do that.

Despite Grey's rank above her, he's still intent on attempting to impress her through his weight training-his being a sergeant doesn't negate the fact that she's simply been around longer. Soon enough, the eager-to-please streak that all shinies harbor would disappear, and they'd behave like normal clones.

But for now, Grey and Trig engage in a friendly wrestling match. They have their hands on each other's bare shoulders, fighting hard to grab a firm hold and throw the other. Grey starts to gain the upper hand when he changes stances, shifting his weight onto his back foot and yanking Trig towards him. If Grey had twisted his body, he would have thrown Trig and automatically gained the upper hand.

Sensing this, Trig thrusts his hands forward and tickles his sergeant. Surprised giggles force Grey to double over in laughter. Seizing the opening, Trig lifts him over his shoulders in a wounded man's carry, crowing with triumph. Grey keeps laughing.

"The best of the best!" Trig cries loudly, brandishing his sergeant like a trophy. "After years of training-"

"No dirty fighting allowed!" Grey shouts, still giggling. "This isn't a win for you, Trig!"

Miffed, Trig drops Grey on the mat. "One day!" he swears.

Just watching the shinies play like children is enough to make Yousa happy. She would join in on their antics, but her shirt might get pulled in the process of roughhousing. For the time being, she stays put.

Apparently tired of exercising, Grey comes and plops down next to her. The sergeant wipes the sweat out of his eyes. "We don't normally have this much fun exercising-not with just us, at least," he says, his breath escaping him in heavy pants.

"And why's that?" Yousa is nowhere near as exhausted as he is. She only intends a light workout, nothing more.

Grey gives a minor shrug. "I want us to be as physically fit as possible-peak performance, peak form-so," he takes a breath, "I try to prevent roughhousing. Doesn't do much for exercise or our image."

Grey is a sergeant, selected six months after decanting to be leader of his squad-the way that all sergeants are. But before that, he's a shiny, a clone who's just arrived on the front lines, who hasn't scratched or dented his armor yet and wants everyone to pay attention to him, but only for noteworthy things. He seems to be going through his shiny stage worse than his men; Grey's keen sense of time, performance, and appearance have already made news throughout the battalion.

Poor him. Sergeants have the extra burden of being represented by their squad, and his just happens to be the most colorful in terms of both personality and hair. They were breaking the rules of uniformity and it killed him-but he secretly wished that he could be like them and not have to perform to such a high standard.

With only a little guilt, Yousa is glad that she'll never be a sergeant. She's seen how much the new sergeants stiffen around General Dei and Commander Bliz- _especially_  the commander, whose constant bad mood could make him difficult to be around and even more difficult to please.

Yousa watches Grey observe his squad. The embarrassment and the constant need to please don't outshine the deep love for his men, which presents itself louder and stronger in his eyes.

Grey, tough as he tries to be, even chuckles at the next wrestling match between Poindex and Miser.

"You need a little friendly play every now and then," Yousa says after the beat of silence. "Your image is fine-you've got a good squad, Serg."

Grey looks at her in open surprise before letting a soft smile fall on his face. "I'm 'Serg' now?" he asks, amused. He can't even hide it; he loves the title.

"You outrank me," she says simply.

He snorts. "You have more experience." Which is true-in terms of war, she has  _years_  of battle and life experience on him. Rank means nothing if you don't have the experience to match.

There's the  _barest_  purse of his lips, the dampening of his soft smile into something less content than the sergeant had been mere moments before. Another thing that bothered him, then.

 _Stressed kid_. He'd get over it in time-hopefully. If Grey didn't learn to relax and not worry so much about how he appeared to others, he'd turn into a bitter sergeant with a stick up his ass.

Ironically, he would end up exactly like Commander Bliz.

"You're still Serg to me, sir," Yousa throws back, adding the "sir" with the hopes that it would be a morale booster. It works; Grey has returned to his softly chipper self.

The rest of his squad crows as Miser successfully throws Poindex on his back, pinning him to the ground. He grudgingly accepts the congratulations from his squad; Poindex doesn't seem too bothered. He turns his head to the pair sitting by the edge of the mat. "Sir?" he asks, inviting Grey to spar.

Grey waves a hand, clearly having spent all of his energy on Trig. "I'll pass for now, Dex."

Poindex turns a curious gaze to Yousa. "And what about you, si-I mean, Yousa?" he asks, tripping over her name.

She tugs the fabric of her shirt. "Maybe later."

The kid's clearly disappointed; his lips turn down at the slightest angle, his eyes drifting over to a new spot in the gym. He shrugs a shoulder.

"No tantrums, Dex," Grey admonishes, a sharp edge to his words.

"Why've you got a shirt on? Aren't you hot?" Trig asks, hands braced on his knees.

Again, she tugs the fabric. Her skin is sweltering, but she doesn't dare remove it. "I'm fine," Yousa lies. "I'll grapple, Dex, if you want," she offers.

Dex's sour mood improves instantly. He bounces onto the mat, waiting impatiently for Miser to make the call to start.

The fight doesn't last long-Yousa hates wrestling, but she has much more experience over the shiny. She grapples and tosses Dex with ease.

Dex cries from his prone position on the floor, "Again!"

"I think that's enough for me," Yousa answers apologetically, anxiously fixing her shirt.

"What? Why?" Dex instantly sits up, legs half-crossed on the mat. He looks at her with the big brown puppy eyes of a severely disappointed shiny.

"I'm tired," is all she says. Yousa crosses the floor, taking her place at its edge.

The rest of the play-fight-exercise session goes smoothly. Grey, releasing himself even to his own shiny tendencies, wrestles Miser to try and impress Yousa.

Angel rests quietly beside her, lazily fanning his face with one hand. Drying sweat lays beaded and shining on his forehead; he smells like hell, but he looks content. He regards the matches with quiet interest. Occasionally, his hand will push his lavender hair back and out of eyes. It's curled tips are long enough to reach his jaw.

"You're a quiet one, aren't you?" Yousa says, startling him.

Angel studies her for a quick second, then shrugs a shoulder. "Eh," he says, "I'm quiet until you get to know me."

"Then tell me about yourself," Yousa says, smiling at him. "What's the worst secret you have? Your deepest,  _darkest_ fears and insecurities?"

She might have scared him a bit. Angel's eyes flash left, then right gravely-then, a cheeky smile. "I'm attracted to men," he says.

Yousa snorts. "That's no secret." And it is not uncommon among the clones, either. Most of them have some level of attraction to both or multiple genders, anyways.

"I mean  _only_  men," he elaborates. Okay, less common. A singularly-attracted clone wasn't rare, but they weren't the norm, either. Yousa knew that Cutter liked women and  _only_  women, and that Ro was likely the same. She herself only likes women, also.

"Still not a secret, but a nice factoid." Yousa laughs as Dex and Miser go at it. Dex loses-the kid doesn't seem to be very good at wrestling.

Something catches Angel's attention, because his small snorts die off and he stares  _hard_  at her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees his eyes narrow.

"Something the matter-"

"Did you pierce your ears, sir?" Angel asks, stunned enough to make the mistake of calling her "sir".

Her stomach goes a little cold. "Yeah. Yesterday."

He brushes his own earlobe. "Are we allowed…?"

"Well-no, not reall-I was drunk." She'd forgotten that she put her hair up before coming to the mat. Her little purple studs are visible to the whole galaxy.

"Oh, I called you-"

"It's fine."

Angel doesn't look like it's fine. He continues pinching his earlobe.

OoOoOoO

In the following weeks, Yousa spends more and more time in the closet with Ridge. Nothing much changes about it's interior save for different kinds of wrappers and civilian clothing coming and going. It must not be a closet that's very needed.

They bring in a second cot, and Yousa sleeps on the other side of the small space, across from Ridge. She's directly under the vent, but for the first time in her life, she has multiple blankets and  _two_ pillows.

In these close quarters at night, when they're both tired and Ridge is semi-willing to open up to her, his aversion to physical contact becomes glaringly obvious. He could clap Yousa on the back, but he would wince should she try to do the same to him. Even when relaxed, he would press himself into the corner of his cot that was by the walls, as far from Yousa as physically possible.

One night, the vent is particularly insidious in how much cold air it decides to dump on her. As a result, she lay curled up on her side under four blankets, looking across the four meter space to where Ridge lay in a similar position. She remembers idly that he always falls asleep after she does.

"Hey, Yousa…" Ridge says into the dark. His voice sounds even younger now that he's not trying to force any depth.

"Yeah?" she answers from under her piles of blankets.

"When did you start feeling like a girl? Like, did something happen, or…?"

Yousa doesn't want to think about what Ridge could mean by "something". She pops her head out from under a blanket, contemplating her answer.

He mistakes her silence for discomfort. "I mean," he cuts in quickly, "if something  _did_  happen and it's a bad memory, I'll stop-"

"No, you're fine," Yousa says. She sighs. "I've  _always_  felt like this." Her earliest childhood memories include her viewing herself as a girl with a little boy's body. She remembers doing everything in her power to mimic her female head sergeant on Kamino; and she remembers the devastating reality of puberty. She doesn't tell Ridge this.

"So you feel like a woman?" Ridge asks, his eyes intent on her. The most notable point of his facial expressions is that there is no malice, no disgust on his face-there is confusion, but only because he's new to the subject.

"As far as I'm concerned, I  _am_  one," Yousa corrects him.

The two continue talking into the night. The conversation shifts away from how she feels about herself to other things: comparing General Dei to other Jedi, what it would be like to be farmers, and other little distractions. Yousa is the first of them to fall asleep; Ridge follows not long afterwards.


	12. Identity

Ridge is Yousa's new best friend. They're attached at the hip, eating and training together, and walking about the ship when they're bored.

Ridg, a spunky young clone of ambiguous age and origins, is still a mystery in terms of backstory to Yousa. Despite all that, he's managed to come between her and her squad. Cutter, whenever figuring out a second too late that she wouldn't be spending her free time training with them, would attempt to entice Yousa back into her own squad with promises of "fun things!":

"We could try grappling, if you like-"

"I  _hate_  wrestling. You  _know_ that."

Then Cutter would purse his lips, knowing there was a problem but not knowing of a solution to said problem. Not knowing makes him frustrated-and when he gets frustrated, he takes his anger out on her.

"You never want to spend time with your  _own brothers!_ " he would yell at her, as if volume would make her change her mind. "You have a duty to your  _squad_ , Yousa-not just some random clone who's on bad terms with the Commander to begin with!"

In their culture, Yousa is toeing the line of two major aspects of clone identity: being a clone, and having brother. Cutter doesn't want to keep her from hanging out with Ridge just because he can be a hooligan. To him, she is abandoning her brothers, which is the worst thing a clone can do besides abandoning their duty to the Republic.

_I'm not so sure about that one..._

Her apathy to anything they have to say to her and her absence from activities that would help her grow closer to her squad do nothing to alleviate the tension between them. Each day, each hour that she willingly chooses not to be true  _ir_  with her brothers is a step closer to reaching full-blown squad collapse.

Yousa knows what she is doing. She can see that taboo just beyond the horizon, when she would officially throw herself into the worst thing a clone could become and never return.

_Ap'resh_.

There are days when Yousa is able to slink by her squad's simmering anger, hovering just around the edges so as to be  _present_  but not  _seen_ -that is until a particularly bad battle pushes everything up to the surface.

Yousa sits on her now barely-used bunk, tying her her hair back and doing her best to ignore the awkwardness in the air. Her presence in their quarters is like that of a stranger's; she's meant ot be there, but no one knows what to do with her.

Next thing she knows, she's staring at Cutter's codpiece.

"Yousa," he says, grave, "we need to talk."

He doesn't move her anywhere private, doesn't try to make this a conversation that she doesn't feel threatened in. Her sergeant simply plants himself across from her on the opposite bunk, staring her in the eye. In her peripheral vision, Yousa can see that Ro almost makes a move to move to his place behind cutter; he thinks better of it.

"I'm forbidding you from hanging out with Ridge."

Like that would stop her. "Why?" she demands, curious anyways. Her fingers don't stop their actions in her hair.

Cutter's face-his entire body-twitches. He's only barely holding back his rage, a poor effort to get Yousa to listen to him instead of fighting him. " _Because_ ," he bites out, "he's a bad influence."

She scoffs, braiding her hair. "'Bad influence'," she repeats.

"You really don't see how he's changing you, Yousa?" Cutter snaps, leaning forward. "You're even more disobedient than ever before. You don't train with us, don't eat with us-hell, you don't even  _sleep_  with us, Yousa!" he barks. "You don't spend time with your  _brothers_."

She can't help it; her mouth sets into a fierce scowl.

"It's not a word to be ashamed of."

Yousa doesn't want this. It's not a conversation she wants to have again and again, over and over until one or both of them dies in battle. "You don't make it easy to spend time with you."

"What is it? Is it the teasing? We've stopped that by now, Yousa," Cutter says. To his credit, he tries to be more conciliatory. "You know that if we ever say something that bothers you-"

" _Don't_ ," Yousa interrupts. "Don't pretend like that's actually a promise you'll keep."

"What am I doing wrong, then?" he yells, back to the anger. She knew it wouldn't have lasted.

"For starters, you're trying to prevent me from seeing Ridge."

The whole squad is watching. They always do. Cutter and Ro will lead the charge, Jukebox and Oric will tag in right behind them when they think they can benefit from torturing Yousa-Fortaj is always last, and he never seems to agree with or take joy in Cutter's words.

That doesn't always push him into doing the right thing and protecting Yousa. Most times he'll just turn his back and pretend nothing is happening.

"I already-" Cutter swears. "He is  _not_  a member of this squad, dammit!" he yells, finally snapping.

"I can be friends with who I want, Sarge," Yousa says. "You've never done anything for me or my safety, not since we left Kamino."

"And what's he doing for you, hm?" Cutter rises; her whole body tenses. "You're insubordinate, you're disobedient-I'm scared you might not even actually care about your own  _brothers_ , Yousa!"

She's shaking now, so filled with rage she instantly jumps up to match his height. "You really know why you're upset," she damn near growls at him. "You're mad that you can't control me, that I'm not the perfect little solder you've been trying to shove me into since-"

"I can see how he's  _influencing_  you, Yousa," Cutter says, cutting her off.

A pit forms in her stomach. She knows the destination; she doesn't want this conversation to go there.

"You pierced your ears, Yousa," he continues. "You've-you're changing so much of yourself and we-" he motions to the whole squad "-can't find a way to bring you back to us. You're our brother, don't-"

"Don't  _call_  me that-"

"It's not something to fucking be ashamed of, Yousa!"

"I'm not-I'm not-" She gags. She can't get it out because she knows it's a lie. Yousa is ashamed, she's disgusted, she is feels emotion that a clone  _shouldn't_  feel when being called "brother".

"Do you see how far into this 'woman' thing you've gone, Yousa?" he says, making air quotes around the word "woman". The actions cut her life a knife. "You won't even use the showers at the same time as everyone else, for kriff's sake."

This is true, at least; her changing body is noticeable enough now that she can't risk using the communal showers. Yousa either goes in the off hours when others would be too tired to notice even a gundark in the stall next to them, or she uses the shower in the medbay.

Over the months since she's started taking hormones, Yousa has slowly become more and more physically distant from her squad. It started with not always accepting hugs to not even undressing in the same room as anyone. Her bizarre shyness is already common knowledge in the 686th.

Even now, Yousa starts to curl in on herself, feeling open and exposed with Cutter's words.

Her sergeant steps up to her, chest-to-chest, so close she can smell his breath. "I'm thinking this might just be the start, Yousa," he says, his voice low. "You're eating more-packing on all that extra weight. Refusing to exercise." He narrows his eyes at her. "You hide and sneak around and do your nails, thinking people won't notice." His eyes change, a mix of disgust and sadistic pleasure tinging his irises. "You've pierced your ears. Makes me think what  _else_  you're doing to your body."

Yousa's intestines curl, tying themselves into knots. She wants to throw up; her skin is ablaze with rage, fear, and probably even sweat. She braces her hands on the bed's edge, fighting to control her breathing.

Cutter leans back, satisfied by her reaction. He looks down on her, every inch of superiority reigning on his face. "You're sticking by us from now on. You're not going  _anywhere_  without one of us nearby."

If she opens her mouth to say anything, she'll hit him-she's confident of it. Instead, Yousa storms out of her squad's quarters.

Next thing, she's back in the closet. Ridge isn't there, but he doesn't need to be. Yousa sits-thens she stands, then she sits again. She's too angry to think, too angry to do anything but pace frantically around the small space.

Cutter's finally catching onto all of her symptoms. Her heart seizes in her chest.

Yousa sits, plants herself firmly on the edge of her cot. Bracing her hands on her knees, she sucks in large amounts of air, releasing it slowly in small puffs. Her severely frayed nerves make her arms weak, twisting and churning her stomach so that nausea creeps up the back of her throat, threatening to spill out through her barely parted lips.

_Breathe_.

_Cutter's about to find out_ everything _-your transition, the hormones you're taking, how far you've really gone-_

_Breathe!_

There's a flash of light to her left-someone opens the door, striding fully into the closet before noticing its occupant. Then the footsteps thud mroe heavily as the person rushes to her side. It's Ridge. "Yousa? Yousa, what's wrong?"

She wants to talk, she really does, but all that comes out of her mouth is labored, thin breathing. She can barely muster the strength to turn her head toward him, her body locked in its tense position on the cot. Keeping still is the only way to prevent herself from throwing up.

Yousa's vision starts to go dark around the edges. Her throat shrivels to the width of a pin, her stomach contorting itself into such a tight knot she might double over from the pain of it.

Ridge's voice grows more panicked when she doesn't answer. "Yousa!  _Tell me_  what's wrong-hey, hey…" Ridge kneels down in front of her almost between her knees, his armor scuffing on the durasteel floor. The proximity is uncomfortable for him, she can tell.

He doesn't quite touch her, letting his gloved hands hover over her shoulders instead of settling them they way he should have. "Everything's okay, Yousa," Ridge says, unsure of himself. "U-Uh- _kriff_ can you just tell me what happened?"

With great difficulty, she gives a stuttering shake of the head. Her breathing's worse now, sweat breaking out on her brow. Her anxiety-riddled mind explores every worst-case scenario, weaves through every chilling path that could result from Cutter's piecing together of all the changes she's gone through over the months.

Womanhood isn't something attainable to clones. Their culture is barely cognizant of gender in the same way civilians are, but...that's exactly the thing. Clones aren't civilians. The entire army was born and bred to  _fight_ , their bodies carved and honed into peak physical form for males in order to complete the mission and dedicate their lives to the Republic.

Civilians don't have to do that. Civilian, to them, means any myriad of things-just  _not clone_. The clones, by the laws of the entire galaxy, are men.

And women, by the laws of the clones,  _aren't_  clones-they're civilians, Jedi, drill masters on Kamino, but  _never_ clones.

Odd that a more or less genderless culture would draw that distinction. Then again, men fall under the same distinguishing lines-most men are civilians, Jedi, drill masters, and therefore not clones.

If you asked a clone what he was, he would say "clone". Their language uses pronouns based on rank, not gender. A man is a man, a woman a woman-and a clone is a clone.

By being a woman, Cutter sees Yousa as rejecting her clone identity, and that's what enrages him. She's turning into a woman. She's abandoning being a clone. In their culture, it's the highest form of taboo possible, besides abandoning a brother.

Legally, it's treason.

Socially, Yousa would be cast out by her brothers-by the whole battalion, the whole army if the GAR collectively caught wind of it. They'd still save her life in battle, but in the privacy of their culture? Nothing more than dust. It's a fate worse than death itself.

Yousa's chest cramps, her lungs shrinking to the size of marbles in her ribs.

_Breathe._

_I can't-_

_Breathe!_

The panic attack forces her imagination down a new road, one where Cutter tells someone with enough authority that she's been illegally altering her body. Against her protests, her mind races ahead; only a blood test would be needed to show that her estrogen levels are through the roof with almost no testosterone left in her body.

She would be sent to Kamino. Tested. Studied. Cut open. Killed.

Yousa gasps-no, she cries out with the reality of her potential fate. She huddles forward, everything breathing exercise now lost on her as her body descends into a full-blown panic attack. Her arms and legs are locked with terror, her stomach refusing to give up the severe cramping storm they've started.

Ridge starts to panic too. From his position below her, he grabs her face, shielding both sides of her head. "Hey, you-you don't have to talk about it, Yousa. I'm sorry for mentioning it-"

He does something she doesn't expect. One moment, he's kneeling down in front of her, the next he's on the cot next to her-and his arms wrap around her, bringing her head close to his chest.

It's a hug. An awkward one. Ridge has clearly neither done this before, nor had anyone done it to him.

"I'm sure that, whatever it is, it'll get better," he said, his voice low and smooth. "At least as long as you're with me, you're safe. Nothing's going to hurt you." The words aren't original. They've been said to him before, clearly.

Yousa lets herself go slack, burying her face in the fabric at the neck of his undersuit. He makes a small noise at the back of his throat. He might be uncomfortable; she hadn't considered that, and is in the middle of mustering up the strength to pull away when he leans back against the wall, one palm resting on the back of her head while the fingers of his other hand undo the braid in her hair.

She can feel his lips against the top of her head. "You're safe with me, Yousa," he mutters, repeating this and other variations. "You're gonna be fine. Everything's alright." His fingers run themselves through her loose, wavy hair. With her armor on, there's no way to engage in physical contact that actually means something.

"Shh…."

Yousa hiccups. Her breath drops from wheezing to small, soft puffs, barely brushing past her lips. She's dizzy with oxygen deprivation, her arms and legs weak and stomach trembling from the adrenaline rush.

"Just keep breathing like that."

She takes a deep breath, then a deeper one until her hazy vision is cleared and Ridge's armor with all its intricate designs comes into sharp view. Yousa lays against his shoulder for a few moments, tracing the pattern with her eyes. Ridge isn't stroking her hair so much as patting it and the side of her face now.

In due time, Yousa is able to calm herself down. She sighs, calm enough to fully relax against Ridge's body.

She can't remember the last time she was held like this, cradled after something stressful and assured that everything would be fine.

_This is what having a brother is meant to be like_. Probably back in their Kamino days when Yousa didn't hate her squad, they would have all found a space and leaned against each other, just breathing and taking in one another's warmth. The fact that now she can't touch her own squad, and they only touch her to pull her hair shows just how far apart they are.

In a twisted way, Yousa understands why Cutter sees their current tension as disgraceful. A clone's job is to protect their brothers- _always_.

Yousa's introspection is cut off by Ridge's sudden movement-he backs away quickly enough to startle her, putting a good amount of distance between their bodies. He shutters himself up, knees together and arms close at his sides, hands folded in his lap.

So, he had a time limit for physical contact.

Yousa is genuinely too groggy to care. She corrects her position to lean her head against the bulkhead, glad for the cool metal on her temple. With her heart at a normal rate, she will eventually have the strength to leave the closet.

"How are you feeling?" Ridge asks, his voice small in the still, dark quiet.

Yousa shrugs, nods. She knows that doesn't mean anything.

"Are you able to talk about what happened? Will that help?" he asks, still remaining in his stiff position beside her. At least his voice has lost the frantic edge it'd had two minutes before. It's easier for her to think when others around her aren't panicking as well.

When she finally answers his question, her words sound rough and hoarse. "Don't think talking will help…" she mumbles, eyes still closed.

"Okay."

Silence.

OoOoOoO

She doesn't remember leaving the closet. She just knows that she ends up in the mess hall, a cup of steaming caf and some food on a plate in front of her. Jukebox sits across from her, then Fortaj joins her at her left side. Soon enough, she's surrounded by her squad.

"We should come up with a squad name," one of them suggests, Yousa doesn't know who exactly. "You know-unify us, and everything."

Subtle.

"That new shiny squad's got a name." There have since been "new shiny squads", but they all know who Ro's talking about. Around a mouth of food, he says, "They call themselves RAPTOR Squad."

"I hear they're all colorful, just the Sarge that's a stick up the ass," Jukebox contributes. A stiff silence settles on the table as everyone waits for Yousa to say something.

"Hm." She lazily stabs her food, uninterested in the conversation.

Ro starts speaking without thinking, as he usually does. "What if we called ourselves-what if we were-" When no idea comes to him and nobody interrupts him to come up with something, he falls silent.

"Where've you been, Yousa?" Cutter asks from the opposite extreme of the table. Yousa wonders if maybe Fortaj placed himself in the only open seat near her to keep Cutter from getting too close.

"On the ship." Where the fuck else?

"Right after I told you that one of us was going to be by your side at all times-" He takes a sip of his caf, feigning a casual air. "You disappeared."

Yousa gets sarcastic. "That order was effective immediately? I didn't know, sir. Apologies."

"Yousa," Cutter warns, already an edge to his voice. He pauses, moving to the left of the subject. "We should do this more, eating at the same time. Like a squad." He looks directly at Yousa. "Like brothers."

She stabs her food again, harder this time. They can all see that she's not up for talking-she knows they know. It's part of the reason why none of them have spoken directly to her. The other part of the reason is that Cutter's monologue is making everyone feel awkward, and filling in the gaps between his sentences would make things worse.

He takes another sip of his caf. He hasn't touched his food yet. "This will be fixed," he blurts, suddenly hopeful. "Will be as close as we were back on Kamino, right, Yousa?" Again with that pointed look.

She offers two words this time. "I guess."

He seems satisfied enough. "And we'll start with  _lato'ir_."

All four heads look up at him with surprised. Now is when Cutter takes the time to start eating. Ro looks around, bewildered at the call to something so drastic.

_Lato'ir_. Translated literally, it means "brother-sleep". To civilians, it would be co-sleeping. Normally only practiced after a rough battle, a squad would either take in the sole surviving member of another squad, or band up together on their own. They would push all the bunks together and huddle together under piles of blankets, comforted more by each other's presence and warmth than by words. Clones are rarely afforded that kind of closeness.

It was done to let a clone know that they weren't alone, that they always had someone by them even if their squad was gone.

Problem is, it only means something if someone's dead. Otherwise, it's just a slumber party. Cutter think he can force cultural significance on anything he does, as if he even has that kind of power.

Yousa appreciates the gesture-she really does-but she is nowhere  _near_ comfortable enough to be so close to anyone in her squad. This disregards the obvious fact that hiding her breasts would be difficult in such tight spaces.

Ro still looks confused as hell. "Um, sir-"

"Is there a problem?" Cutter bites out, giving Ro a brief but sharp glare. Ro knows his place; he stays quiet.

Yousa could point out how unnatural it is to force something as important as  _lato'ir_ -like forcing strangers to get married. It could get awkward very quickly without the weight of death and dead brothers' souls weighing down the situation. She also remains silent.

The table chews quietly until they're interrupted by a forced chipper voice. "Hey!" Ridge says to only Yousa, smiling brightly. The piercings under his lips shift with the expression.

Cutter's face goes from neutral to a cold, stormy kind of angry. Ridge certainly notices this-looks directly at him-and acts like it's nothing of note. Tray in hand, he turns his attention back to Yousa, again ignoring the rest of the squad. "I was wondering if we could-"

"He  _can't_ ," Cutter interrupts, looking the kid dead in the eye. "He has things he needs to do."

Ridge's smile twitches; his patience is already wearing thin, and he's only been here for forty seconds. "All due respect, sir-I wasn't talking to you."

The whole table chokes, each member trying to busy themselves with the food in front of them. Except for Cutter, of course, who's voice instantly reaches a near-yelling level. " _Watch_  who you're speaking to,  _trooper_ ," he growls, half-rising out of his seat. "Superior ranking officers are due a certain amount of  _respect_."

A few curious heads have swiveled to look at the drama. Yousa stabs her vegan meat more viciously, embarrassed for all of them. Ridge just looks bored. "I was wondering if you wanted to head to the weight room with me after you're done here." That charming smile is back, not quite as bright as it had been earlier.

"He has things to do," Cutter repeats, still as vicious sounding as before. Could he not maintain at least  _one minute_  of decorum? More clones are starting to stare at them. Yousa sinks into her seat.

Ridge defers to her; he looks at her, tilting his head, waiting for an answer regardless of what her Sergeant says.

Reluctantly, Yousa shakes her head. "No, Ridge-maybe next time."

He gives Cutter a piercing glare before nodding at her. The speed at which he switches moods is terrifying. "Next time, then."

Cutter bores daggers into Ridge's retreating back. " _Krav yi a'tir, ho'a." Fuck you, piece of shit_.

Whirling, not even missing a beat, Ridge answers. " _Krav yi a'tir o'lala."_ Same thing, same demoting rank-and he added bitch at the end.

Yousa foolishly hopes that Cutter is so humiliated that he'll be too busy filing an insubordination report against Ridge to remember the  _lato'ir_.

It doesn't work. Later that night, she finds herself in the middle of five bodies lined up left to right. Cutter and Fortaj on the outside (he knew better than to try to sleep next to her, then), Ro on her right and Jukebox on her left. Every inch of her is pressed against every inch of them.

It's stressful, to say the least.

They've given her the most important position: the middle. There's nothing honorable about it-it's not meant to be, because this is where the brother that lost a their  _tua'ir_ or their entire squad.

But nobody's dead. Her squad is frayed but intact-and yet they had all made the conscious decision to place her in the center and surround her on all sides.

This isn't to comfort her. With Yousa surrounded on all sides, there is no way to move without someone knowing. They don't care about her comfort or emotional safety in something as intimate as this.

They don't care; she's already dead to them.


	13. Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some (mild) NSFW down at the end ;)

The full weight of the Venator class star destroyer settles on the landing platform on Coruscant, steam and dust blasting out of various exhaust ports as the platform master guides the tug ships into port along with it.

One month of battle, two weeks of leave. It’s a blessing most battalions can only dream of.

Yousa is just glad that she’s alive--the sheer number losses they underwent could have included  _ her _ . 

“You want to head out with us?” Poindex asks from over her shoulder, clearly already excited for his first  _ real  _ night out on the town. He’s never had alcohol before, and it’s showing. “RAPTOR wants to invite you.” His brown eyes expectantly wait for an answer. 

Thus far, Cutter and the rest of her squad have kept true to their word; they follow Yousa  _ everywhere _ to make sure she wasn’t with Ridge. The constant presence of a person she doesn’t like would have driven her over the edge if she knew it wouldn’t just make things worse. 

Poindex mistakes her silence for uncertainty. “There’s a new clone-friendly bar that’s up--Clo, it’s called--got lots of blue and purple,” he adds, as if the colors scheme would make any difference.

“Sure, I’ll join you,” she yields, thinking ahead to how she could possibly do up her face and get away with it. She still has the lipgloss she bought with Ridge, hidden safely in her trunk away from her squad. But that trunk is on the destroyer.

“I heard we were hitting up Clo’s, brother?” Jukebox says, throwing an arm around Yousa’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t mind if your brothers joined you?” He side eyes Poindex as if  _ he _ were the intruder.

“Do I have a choice?” Yousa’s already scowling, she can tell.

“Not really,” Jukebox smirks, giving a barley-playful shove to her back. 

Evening light floods the sensors in her bucket before the adjustments kick in; for a moment, Yousa is blinded by the yellow-orange of the Coruscant sky. Bouncing with impatience, Poindex tugs on Yousa’s elbow until she obliges, stepping down the ramp and heading right across the parade grounds, Jukebox tight on her heels.

_ Get lost _ . The trio heads to the GAR base medical bay for their mandatory post-battle check ups. The stark white light raining from the fluorescent bulbs highlights the dirt and possible dried blood clinging to Yousa’s armor.

_ Sign-in, checkup, clean armor and shower, eat (hopefully), and sleep.  _ But she has to replace “sleep” with “head up to Clo’s”, despite how thoroughly exhausted she is. She’s used to her bones, her feet as dead as weights as she drags them across the duracrete ground. Poindex on the other hand is absolutely skipping along beside her, clearly anticipating his first sip of a drink that isn’t water.

Yousa pulls her helmet off.  _ He’s going to be so disappointed. _ Her forehead is still damp with a mild sheen of sweat; she can feel some tendrils of hair sticking to the skin. She quickly swipes at them, pushing them off to the side. Her hair has grown long enough to be annoying, more than a few centimeters past her shoulders and overdue for a trim.

Behind her, Jukebox “hmphs” with disapproval.

_ Shove it, kid _ . The trio pulls up to the tally droids in the secondary landing bay. More of the sunset floods in through the western escape openings, painting everything in a rusty orange glow. Here, more clones than on the parade grounds gather in clumps of various sizes, trying to locate missing brothers or see how many squad members are actually still alive. 

Yousa keeps her eyes straight forward. The simultaneous relief and despair as clones get different answers surrounds her. 

“Identification,” the tally droid demands, holding out a wide datapad to her. It’s cold yellow eyes stare, probably not even noting the two other clones beside her. They weren’t made with conversation in mind.

Yousa punches in her number. “Identification.” Poindex does the same. “Identification.” Finally, Jukebox. She scrolls through the list of signed-in troopers. 

“We have everyone, Juke,” she says, not bothering to look at him. She doesn’t know how to feel about that. Yousa doesn’t want her squad dead, but she has never been fond of the members, either. “So do you, Poindex,” she adds. 

Poindex beams, barely hearing her. Grabbing her elbow again, he leads them all to the medbay. Clones in various states of undress and levels of injury take up every space available. Several cots in the main holding area hold two or even three clones while others stand or sit by unoccupied walls and corners. Every minute or so, a pained cry rises in the air before falling off again. 

The medics are clearly overrun, but they’ve been trained for this level of injuries. Yousa catches a glimpse of Cord’s weird eyes before he disappears again into the throng.

“Hey!” A voice Yousa doesn’t recognize--probably a base medic--calls out to them, a hand in the air. Gloved fingers jab at them. “Have you three been checked out yet?” he asks, already changing the sheet on a cot. They all sit down on it, packed together on the narrow space. 

The medic examines Poindex first, flashing a light in each eye and quickly running through the standard questions. He’s cleared in about a minute.

Yousa is next, and she squints and covers her eye when the medic shines the light. 

He purses his lips. “Come on, sit still.”

Yousa obliges this time, but what had started as a mild headache intensifies with the duration of the check up. As a matter of fact, even the noise level in the central medbay--something that could be and has been much worse--grates against her skull and sets her teeth on edge.

_ Sensory overload _ . It happens after battle sometimes, when she can’t seem to stand any amount of stimulation from her environment. Yousa screws her eyes shut, holding a hand to her head. “Am I cleared, doc?” she asks, hoping to hear “yes” so she can leave as quickly as possible.

“No.”

Shit.

“Have you eaten today, brother?”

Yousa bristles. “No, I haven’t. I can get a meal from the mess.” 

Instead, he shoves a ration bar and cup of water in her face. “Go take a minute, lay down in the back room, okay? One should be open.”

Poindex pouts, looking between the doors that lead to the rest of the base--and eventually Clo’s--and the ones that only go farther into the medical bay. Yousa sees a plan to abscond her forming in his eyes. 

“Come on, Dex,” she mutters, heading toward the back doors, much to his dismay. Maybe she can catch an hour of sleep before going out for drinks. She downs the water, instantly relieved once the doors shut behind her. The air in the secondary section of the medical bay is significantly cooler, untouched by hundreds of bodies. The sweaty, bloody smell that had been blocking her nose is replaced by clear sterility, and even the lights don’t seem as bright.

Beside her, Poindex begins to fidget. “How long do you think you’ll be down? When will you be cleared, si--Yousa?” he says, catching himself. He looks at her expectantly.

“Until my headache goes away,” she answers, entering the first room available.

The single rooms on the Coruscant base are similar to those on the destroyers, but they’re built with added space and slightly bigger refreshers. Two beds lie perpendicular to the wall on the left, and the door to the refresher is on the right. The closet is stocked with sheets, blankets, pillows, and a change in underclothes.

Yousa pulls out two of everything, tossing them at Poindex. “Make these up for me, will you?” she asks, pointing to the two beds.

His face is a mix of bewilderment and impatience. “ _ Both _ of them?” At least there’s not “sir” this time. “But what about--”

“Please?” Yousa near begs, rubbing her forehead again. She finishes the rest of the ration bar, tossing the shiny wrapper in the trash. “I’m a much better drinking buddy when I don’t have a headache.” 

Poindex obeys, but not happily and not silently. While he plays house, Yousa pulls off her armor pieces, tossing them into a neat pile. She leaves temporarily to get rags and armor cleanser. 

“We’re gonna clean up first--no bartender wants mud-covered patrons, Dex,” she says when she sees the look on his face. 

He self-consciously looks at his dirty self, at least seeing her side of things. Yousa steps into his line of sight, holding out two rags and a spray bottle. Poindex’s eyes flick briefly down to her chest. 

Yousa’s stomach twists instantly. Without a word, she takes residence of the other bed and keeps her back turned to him. She hadn’t expected them to be so noticeable by now, but there they are: the two mostly-even results of several months on hormones. She pulls away the neck of her shirt, examining her chest. Maybe it’s time for a bra.

The thought alone is a little scary, so she lets go of the collar and focuses on scrubbing her thigh plates. A solid month of fighting, dodging, and starving didn’t seem to have any impact on the new shape her body is taking. Her thighs are still a few centimeters thicker than a clone of her class’s should be.

But being without the restrictive chest plate feels like finally undoing a tight braid, or relaxing after being tensed-up for hours. She rubs her left side, then the right, careful not to make her movements obvious to Poindex, whose gaze she can feel boring into her shoulder blades. 

“Are you showering first, or me?” he says after a few minutes of silence.

“I’ll go.” Her back still turned, Yousa pulls off the last of her armor and undoes her braid, holding the towel over her chest and rushing quickly into the refresher. 

Under normal circumstances, clones wouldn’t be so embarrassed by their or another’s nudity. But Yousa has been shy since she was first pulled out of her jar, and her squad teases her relentlessly for it. She certainly doesn’t miss the strange look Poindex gives her.

Sealed safely in the neat, sparse refresher, Yousa hangs the towel on the rack, pulling her hair out of her eyes. Dark circles cling to her brown skin, her lips chapped from dehydration. She imagines she smells, too, yet another result of being away from civilization for a month. 

She turns the shower on, letting steam fill the small space before stepping in. There’s a seat that extends from the wall for injured soldiers, but she takes advantage of it, too lazy and tired to stand. 

When she finishes, she stands before the floor-length mirror. Dysphoria--that nagging ever-present thing that keeps her from fully being comfortable with herself--normally keeps her from looking too long in the mirror. She tends to pass them by with the active intention of not seeing her own face because she can never tell if the hormones have eased the sharpness of her cheekbones or chin, or reduced the weight of her brow.

_ Or maybe I’m just exaggerating everything. _ Cord could never give her a straight answer on how she looked, and Yousa has yet to come around to asking Ridge. All that she had to show was fuller cheeks from weight gain.

Now, oddly, the discomfort she feels with her physical self isn’t as intense. She takes a step closer to the mirror, eyeing her body up and down. Her stomach and thighs are softer; her hip bones had once protruded sharply from being made entirely of muscle--now they’re merely soft bumps that she runs her thumbs over. 

Yousa, in whatever spare time she can grab, has been reading up on what estrogen will and won’t change in someone the longer they take it. Her shoulders won’t get narrower, she had learned unhappily, and the slight bump at her throat won’t go away, either--that will require surgery.

Yousa’s lips twist at the thought.  _ At least it’s not all depressing news _ . Her legs look wildly different from before she had started--and of course, she has boobs now. Tiny ones. Barely there.

_ But they’re  _ there _ , at least _ . Yousa can’t fully cup them yet, and she has no idea how big they’ll grow by the time they  _ stop _ growing. Every article and infosite she had read didn’t have the words “sizable” or “big”--instead, they had “could still be small--but that’s okay!” or “Don’t worry, every woman develops differently!” with five thousand exclamation points.

She tilts her head, tracing her fingers lightly from her ribs down to her hips. It’s another area she’s self conscious about and is desperately hoping will show some progress soon. The frequency of her back aches and pelvic soreness has gone down over the last few weeks, but she isn’t sure if the barely perceptible curvature is fat or actual bone development. All the infosites say that since the advancement of hormone therapy, bone growth and reshaping would be more noticeable and efficient.  _ But when?  _

Yousa twists her hips in the mirror so her butt is in full view. From behind, she kind of looks like one model she’d seen in a tanning ad. She can already tell what it’s new shape will be. Yousa would be lying if she said she’s not excited.

A knock on the door pulls her from her daydreaming. “Are you done in there?” Poindex says through the door. 

It slides open, revealing Yousa in multitudes of steam. Her hair drips water over her skin, but she’s  _ clean _ . Her headache is gone, too. “Yeah, you can go now.”

It doesn’t pass by him that she’s wrapped her towel around her chest. By the time he comes out, she’s dressed and drying her hair with a second towel. “You ready to go?”

“You aren’t going to sleep?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “You’re the one that wanted to go out,” she answers.

Poindex’s slowly dying energy returns to him with fervor. Scooping up both their buckets, he rushes to the door, bouncing with glee while he waits for Yousa to catch up. On the parade grounds, they run into Jukebox. 

“Where’ve you been?” he demands accusingly. He casts sharp glares at the both of them.

“Stuff” is all Yousa says. 

 

OoOoOoO

 

Clo’s is awash in blue and purple flashing lights, the wide, circular, booth-lined space absolutely overflowing with armor and fatigues. More fill in the open upper-floor and the dance floor. Non-clones seem to be patrons here too, buying drinks for one another or flirting with any clone that gets a little brave.

The center of the space is where the bar itself is, and the speakers over it pound out fast, bass-heavy music with lyrics Yousa can’t understand. Not one for dancing or flirting, she reclines in her booth with a pink alcoholic drink in her hands. The cup is cold, freezing her fingers even through her gloves.

She regrets not having time to put on the lipgloss Ridge bought her so many weeks ago. She could have worn it safely in here, where the lighting is so poor that no one would have noticed pink lips.

“Why don’t you get up and dance, Yousa?  _ Enjoy  _ yourself for once!” Cutter crows. She cringes. He annoyingly prods her shoulder, attempting to prompt her out of the seat. “Come on! Come  _ on _ , Yousa!” he yells over the music. 

It’s been one hour and she already wants to leave. Poindex had linked up with his squad earlier in the night and is running around somewhere, probably drunk off his ass and doing something he would regret later. 

Ro gets uncomfortably close, practically breathing into her ear. The smell of booze rolls off of him--he must have spilled more than he drank. “Hey, hey Yousa--”

“ _ What _ .”

One finger points lazily somewhere at the edge of the dancing throng. “You see her?” He points to one woman, a Twi’lek with yellow-green skin. “I  _ dare _ you!”

Yousa heaves a sigh. She knows what he wants her to do and isn’t fond of the idea. Her entire squad is aware that she’s a terrible flirt and stiff dancer and uses that to their advantage. “No!” she protests, bracing herself against the edge of the table and the booth seat. 

Ro pushes even harder, ignoring her. “Go! Go get some, Yousa!” he howls, laughing hysterically.

She doesn’t even need to leave the booth because the Twi’lek woman turns just then, her sharp brown eyes landing on first Ro, then Yousa.

“Yousa!” she shrieks, tackling her into the seat. Ro has to scramble out of the way to avoid getting hurt. The back of Yousa’s head presses into the plastoid-lined cushion. “It’s been so long since I seen ya, baby,” she purrs. Her accent makes “long” come out as “loo-ong”. “How’ve ya been?”

Yousa’s mind draws a complete blank for one second before she remembers who exactly is on top of her and fiddling with her hair. “B-Bura!” she exclaims, her face flushing deep red. 

They’ve had... _ relations _ . Twice.  _ Now _ she remembers. 

Bura plants her lips on Yousa’s long enough to make Yousa dizzy. She giggles. Just to get on Cutter’s nerves, she kisses her back.

“Yousa, who is this?” Cutter asks, not too drunk to pry into her business. The jealousy is clear as day on his face, combined with a fierce scowl at their very public display of affection. 

Bura whirls on him, a sly smirk on her face. “Why,” she says, sitting up with a perfect arch of her back, “she’s my fuck buddy.”

Ro chokes on his drink, Cutter left sputtering at the table. Yousa’s entire body flashes with hot and cold as Bura, small in size but not in strength, hauls her out of her seat. Leading by the hand, she tugs Yousa through the crowd and through a narrow door at the back of the club.

The pair follows a tiny flight of steps upwards and then right. Through another door and they’re at one end of a long, equally slim hallway. Bura spins to flash a cheeky smile at Yousa, who grins nervously back. Every single memory of Bura--two experiences so far, soon to be three--runs through her mind. She’s heating up at memories alone.

They enter the room at the end--Bura’s apartment. It still smells the same, like old food and perfume. The living area is tiny, the single bedroom even smaller. Yousa doesn’t have the capacity to take in her surroundings, though, because she’s too focused on Bura’s lips and removing her armor as quickly as possible.

“Mm...how’ve ya been, baby?” she purrs, her voice low and getting husky. Her dark eyes burn into Yousa’s as one finger deftly undoes the braid at the back of her head.

“I’ve been good.” Yousa can’t even focus on her own words. She’s dizzy with excitement, and the heat that’s growing between them is getting unbearable. Bura’s lips were always enough to do her in alone.

But when her back hits the soft bed covers, she pauses. Bura tips her head to one side in that curious way she does when she’s contemplating something. “Do you want to slow down, baby?”  She doesn’t move from her position over Yousa: on her knees and elbows, their faces nearly touching, fingers playing idly with her hair. 

She dodges the question. “You’re obsessed with my hair,” she smirks, pulling Bura down with another kiss. Bura turns her head, giving her a serious look. Yousa avoids her eyes.

_ She’s only asking because she cares _ . She traces her finger over one green lek; the muscle tenses under her touch. Bura’s warmth falls on her like rain, discarding the need for a blanket.

_ Rarely  _ did Yousa’s desires trump her dysphoria and general discomfort with her body. It was only when she was particularly lonely and horny that she ever bothered to (attempt to) spend a night with someone or pleasure herself. Extended contact could make her feel sick if she wasn’t up for it.

Bura knows this, knew from their first time when Yousa’s awkwardness could not entirely be chalked up to inexperience and timidity. 

“I’m fine,” she says. It’s not entirely a lie, at least. 

Satisfied with the response, Bura pulls her shirt over her head in one smooth motion, then bends over to kiss Yousa again. Yousa returns it, running her fingers over her impossibly soft stomach and chest. Bura giggles into Yousa’s lips. Her hands wander, attempting to tug Yousa’s shirt over her head as well.

“W-Wait!” Yousa gasps, pressing herself into the bed. Bura obeys, sitting back again with the inquisitive look on her face. Yousa’s hands have closed around hers. “I, um…”

_ So many things can go wrong.  _

_ Don’t think about it like that! _

Yousa does and doesn’t understand her anxiety. Bura cares--she wouldn’t do anything to make Yousa uncomfortable. She has never mocked or judged or humiliated her--even after she spilled her guts and nearly cried in a drunken post-coital emotional mess of a rant. 

“We don’t have to do everything tonight--”

“That’s not what I--I mean…” Her face flushes. Without another word, she pulls her shirt off.

“...Those are new.”

“Yeah.”

Bura smiles, all teeth and happiness. “I like ‘em.”

“They’re lopsided.”

“So? Every gal’s a little bit uneven, baby.” 

A breath Yousa didn’t know she had been holding releases. Bura pokes her, getting handsy. “How far d’you think you’re gonna go, Yousa?”

“As far as I can.”

Bura leans down, kisses Yousa so delicately she almost doesn’t feel it. “I’m glad for you,” she whispers. 

Yousa can’t help herself: she smiles back. Her hands explore Bura’s butt--then more. “I am, too.”

She snickers, settling her full weight on Yousa. The sensation of skin on skin is her favorite part--the feeling of being this  _ close  _ to someone, of being enveloped by another person, of having their hearts beat against one another’s. It’s a level of intimacy no clone ever gets to enjoy--the ones that do are rare.

_ And I’m one of them _ . The pair matches one another’s movements, every small tug or gasp growing rougher and more impassioned until Yousa hooks her thumbs in Bura’s pants and pulls down. Bura does the same to her.

The air is colder than she’d thought. There’s only a moment’s distraction as Bura pulls out the necessary protection, then the two go back to their motions. In the back of her mind, Yousa recalls how bothered she would be under normal circumstances--having someone be this close to  _ her _ , to interact so much with  _ her, _ would have set off every alarm and trigger in her system. 

But that doesn’t happen. Instead, Bura settles on Yousa and the only thing louder than Yousa’s (momentary, quickly fading) dysphoria is the sound of both their panting and the creak of the mattress.

She’s not know for her stamina. Thirty seconds after Yousa flips them so she’s on top, she finishes. 

Bura, always smiling, is grinning even harder now. She plays with Yousa’s hair, which forms a dark, wavy curtain around them. There’s a thin line of sweat on her forehead, but her back is cold, exposed to the air. Both of them are breathing hard. 

“ _ Kriff _ , I love your hair, baby,” she says, her voice rough. Of course she does--Twi’leks don’t have hair. Her mesmerized brown eyes travel along Yousa’s hairline. In a fit of temptation, she sweeps part of it back over her head, grasping it in a fist.

“Ow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Yousa presses her body into Bura’s, still craving the heat they had generated together. Deciding to extend her stay as long as possible, Yousa moves in on Bura’s neck, smiling when a surprised little gasp comes out of her. Then she reaches over the edge of the bed, pulling up the blanket that had been knocked to the floor in the process of everything. It’s thick and blue, spotted either by design or by bleach stains.

Besides the sex itself, Yousa’s favorite part is the moment right after, when she can still have the attention she craves, but quietly. She has never understood how people could get up and leave right after. 

Bura is of the same mind and always has been. She pulls the cover up their chins, staring up at Yousa.

She doesn’t know what to say. “Thanks.”  _ Stupid _ .

Bura shakes her head. “You don’t have to thank me, baby.” Somewhere in the dark, their fingers tangle together. “Oof, your hands are so  _ soft _ . What’s your secret?” She cups Yousa’s cheek, tracing her cheekbone. 

_ Don’t wear anything but a body glove for your whole life. _ She doesn’t say that. She shrugs.

Bura has already moved on from the perfection of Yousa’s skin. Her eyes bore deep into Yousa’s, examining something she only wishes she could see. Everything about Bura’s demeanor changes: her lips turn down, her brow furrowing into what Yousa can only call a concerned pout. 

“Your eyes are so sad, Yousa,” she mumbles. “Why is that?” 

The unexpected question hits her like cold water. Some noise starts and dies in Yousa’s throat. What does she say? A life lived as a series of near-death experiences, lived where she hates her surroundings and, at her very core,  _ herself _ , would be liable to produce sad eyes.

_ But you don’t hate yourself, _ Yousa tells herself.  _ Do you? _ She can’t answer the question.

Bura doesn’t care for one. She wriggles upward until her arms are clasped around Yousa’s head and shoulders, pressing the second’s face into her chest. “Sleep tight, baby,” she says, voice smooth as water.

And she does.


	14. Night Out pt 2

Yousa wakes up an hour later, swathed in darkness and warmth, barely aware of the world she’s in for a few blissful seconds. She lays there, still as possible, listening to the beat of Bura’s heart.

“I’ve been thinking, baby,” Bura says, breaking the silence. A slender finger toys with a curl in Yousa’s hair, twisting and brushing it against her skin. “Don’t you need to be getting back now?”

Her moment of bliss shatters. Instead of responding, she tightens her arms around Bura’s waist, pulling the other woman closer until Yousa’s answer becomes clear.

“Is this a one-day leave like last time, or…?” Bura pushes on anyways, her fingers never stilling

“Two weeks,” Yousa mumbles into her chest. She can feel herself drifting off again.

Bura finally lets the subject rest--but instead of remaining quiet, she begins to hum a small tune. Yousa can feel the vibrations in her chest.

A small, high trill comes up from the floor. Both women pause in confusion before dread grips Yousa’s stomach, dragging her upwards and into the cool bedroom air. Her commlink trills again, impatiently this time. She answers. “What?” She absently wonders if her rude greeting would get her court martialed.

It’s Poindex’s voice, surprisingly. “Yousa!” he shouts over the pounding music in the background. “Where are you? Did you head back to base already?”

“You sound like you’re having fun, Dex.” She can’t help but smile to herself. Behind her, Bura shifts and rolls over, one hand sliding over Yousa’s outer thigh.

“I am! Where are you?” he repeats. “You’re missing all the fun!”

So his first experience with alcohol _wasn’t_ negative. Lucky him. “There was um…” her voice trails off as her minds works to find a suitable explanation. “There was a lady...I met,” she finishes. “I’m with her now.”

He at least gets it. “O-Oh, I’m...sorry to interrupt.”

“We aren’t doing anything.”

“Huh.” Pause. “Was it nice--”

“I am _not_ answering that.”

“Right, yeah--um, I didn’t--sorry.” Another pause. “Are you coming back, though? The rest of RAPTOR is here and we all want to talk to you.”

Yousa can only imagine what that must mean. Bura’s head comes to rest on her shoulder, arms slung lazily over her hips. “You should go back to them, baby,” she says.

“I-Is that her?” Poindex chokes.

“Hiya there, sweetie!” Bura calls, waving even though she can’t see him. “Are you one of Yousa’s boys?”

A series of noises neither can fully identify stream from the commlink. “Uh, yeah…? We’re friends.”

Yousa expects one of them to say something, but silence falls instead. She cuts in before it can get weird. “I’m coming down, Dex.” She sighs, placing the comlink on the bed and rolling her head back. The last thing she wants is to leave the bubble she’s surrounded herself with. Going back to the bar means going back to noise and _life_ and a squad she doesn’t trust.

Yousa is painfully aware of the ache inside her; it tells her to stay, to ignore everything she doesn’t want and to--just once--do something for _herself_. It’s a war between pleasure and duty, between safety and what’s been assigned to her since birth.

_Safety._ Odd that Yousa would feel safer with a person she doesn’t know so well than with people she’s lived, trained, and fought with for literally her entire life. It feels like a betrayal, despite the pain her squad has caused her. She honestly doesn’t know what to make of it besides the fact that she does not appreciate how she feels.

Yousa is also painfully aware of how _naked_ she is, every inch of her body exposed for anyone--Bura--to see. She curls up, arms and hands covering her chest as best she can while she fumbles with a way to ask for her underwear. Her face flames into deep red.

“Oh, now you’re shy, huh?” Bura teases, tickling Yousa’s ribs. She fails to hold back her giggles. “If you don’t want to, then why stay with them?”

For the second time, her question is like cold water on Yousa; she knows she’s not being asked about staying with her. “I have to, Bura,” she whispers. There is no other way to explain it. Goosebumps rise on her skin and she rubs them away as best she can.

“Can’t you leave?” Bura’s eyes burn into Yousa’s skin. Yousa understands that she means more than she’s saying.

“No.” It’s all she can say for now. She rises, pulling on her undersuit as she kicks her armor plates into a pile on the floor.

Bura sits up in the bed, watching her. “You stay safe out there,” she whispers.

Yousa doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. Placing her helmet over her eyes, she nods at Bura and heads back downstairs to the club.

The bright lights and pounding noise are a shocking difference from Bura’s calm, quiet apartment. Not in the mood for drinking or dancing anymore, Yousa just wants to sleep; she sets out to find Poindex.

She finds him drunker than she’d thought possible, more alcohol in his system than he’d probably thought existed. He’s dancing offbeat with some Pantoran guy whose blue skin blends in with the purple and blue flashing lights. The gold markings on his face stand out, though.

Yousa grabs the kid’s shoulder. “Hey, Dex!”

Poindex spins, clearly surprised to see her. “Yousa!” he beams, hooking an arm around her neck. “Meet Ibhe!” He winks at her.

She barely manages a wave. “You and RAPTOR wanted to talk?” She’s more tired than anything else; she hopes it shows on her face because Yousa now has no desire to be in the club.

“Oh! Yeah!” Poindex yells. “We wanted to know if you could show us around?” His eyes scan the throbbing crowd for the rest of his squad. “Since, you know, you’ve been on Coruscant before?” he says, his voice ticking upward at the end.

Yousa’s lips twist together. It’s either sleep or show a bunch of shinies around Coruscant--at least, the two places she knows--for an hour or two. She would say no, but the hope-filled, expectant look Poindex is giving her guilts her into changing her mind. “Fine,” Yousa hears herself saying.

Poindex lets out and embarrassingly loud whoop, running off to find the rest of the squad. Yousa and Ibhe share a look before she goes after him.

 

OoOoOoO

 

RAPTOR is tailing behind her like a group of fascinated school children--which they may as well be. This is their first time off-base and on Coruscant. They’re not used to the multitudinous crush of bodies and species, sights and smells on the city planet. Kamino was barren compared to what they’re experiencing now.

Poindex is nearly right on top of Yousa, practically tripping on her heels in conflicting eagerness to look around and caution telling him to stick by her side.

“Where are you taking us?” Miser isn’t as much of a grump with alcohol in his system, it seems. He’s nowhere near smiling, but his face is noticeably softer without the scowl. He scans the crowd with the same intensity as Poindex, but with less of the puppydog eyes.

“There’s a little ice cream place that Ridge took me to once--I don’t know if they’re still open, but we can check it out.” Yousa leads them to an intersection, where they all wait for the light to change. Speeders of various makes and models whiz by.

They cross and soon enough are upon the ice cream shop; it’s still open. The bright white light cast from the interior illuminates the sidewalk--and the inside is cold, like last time.

They pool their money and figure out that one 8-scoop, four-flavor sundae with toppings on the side would be cheaper than individual ice creams. They crowd into one booth, spoons at the ready.

Yousa looks at all of them. They look back. “Well?” she asks, beyond confused.

“How cold is it?” Miser asks. “I have sensitive teeth.”

Yousa just digs in, going for the white, perfectly round ball of ice cream first. Everyone else follows suit, trading toppings and small conversation until the dish is finished.

Yousa examines all of them, from Grey, balanced precariously on the outside edge of his seat, to Angel and Dex crammed in next to each other but not minding, to Miser asleep against Trig’s shoulder, who is leaning on Onlink. Her chest blooms with a kind of warmth that’s unfamiliar, but pleasant. 

“Let’s head back, guys,” she says.

 

OoOoO

 

The good feelings Yousa had gained from the night out are dashed once she’s within three meters of one of her own squad members.

First it’s the look, then the hard glare as the realization that she’s disobeyed direct orders _again_ sets in--then comes the yelling and the “Sergeant Cutter’s gonna hear about _this_ ”-ing and all the other bullshit she could have gone without.

Yousa stands in the center of the temp barracks--the sleeping areas battalions on leave used. It’s much more austere than what they have on the ships because of the high frequency of brothers coming in and out.

The heat from Cutter’s glare brings her out of her daydreams, but she refuses to actually meet his eye. She stares at a spot right between his eyebrows instead, bucket tucked under her arm and back as straight at the walls.

“Yousa,” he near spits, edging half a step closer than she’s entirely comfortable with. “ _Where_ have you been?”

It must be the stress of the situation; her dysphoria kicks in, although she guesses it never actually leaves her. It gets worse, however, when stuck with her squad. Paranoia tells her they’re always examining her, always checking to see if she looks like them or if she’s changed beyond just her personality. The anxiety creeps into her stomach, cramps it.

Yousa’s jaw works. “I was with RAPTOR--went out to a bar and then got some food. Grey will tell you.” They’re the same rank; Cutter wouldn’t make a mess with another sergeant over something like this.

“And in the _five hours_ you were gone--” he takes another step, Yousa stiffens, “--you didn’t _once_ think to contact a single member of _your own_ squad like you’d been instructed?”

“No, sir.” The honorific always sounds like a curse when she says it. She’s satisfied to see the corners of his mouth turn downward.

“ _Why?”_ he yells.

“I was…” Yousa’s stomach curls up inside her. “I was with RAPTOR the entire time. I _forgot_.”

Finally, he steps back, but not without a damning statement. “You’re on probation, Yousa. Three weeks.”

With stiff legs, she spins on her heel only to be stopped short.

“Starting _immediately_ ,” Cutter snaps, stabbing one finger to the ground. “You’re staying here.”

Yousa just barely fights down the growl begging to be let loose, sitting uncomfortably in her throat. With all her squad’s eyes on her, she walks the two meters to her bare bunk, planting herself on its stiff, thin mattress.

Satisfied at least for the moment, Cutter turns his back on her. Ro, however, continues to stare. Yousa pulls her bucket over her head; she can still feel him, though.

The static tells her the comm lines are open. She tries Ridge and he answers on the first blip. “What’s up?” he greets her, sounding tired and distracted.

“My squad is staring at me.” They’ve tried and failed to hide it from her. They all know she’s talking to someone under her bucket but just haven’t found an appropriate way to intrude--yet. “Where are you?”

“Medbay,” Ridge answers, his voice faraway for a moment.

Alarm blares in Yousa’s head. “What for?” She doesn’t like the sudden tight feeling she gets in her chest.

“I don’t like sleeping in barracks,” he says, with a hint of “you already know this” in his words.

Desperate for something to do, Yousa ignores it. “Why’s that?” It’s so quiet she thinks the line must have gone dead. There isn’t even the sound of rustling in the background. “Ridge--”

“I just don’t,” he cuts in a little hastily, like he wants to change the subject. Yousa feels like she may have offended him and is about to apologize when he continues on. “You want to hang out? There might be a convenience store near by if--”

“Can’t.” Now it’s her turn to interrupt him. “I’m on probation”

Ridge’s guffaw is audible. “What do you _mean_ you’re ‘on probation’? What the fuck happened, I was gone for like an _hour_.”

His sense of time is nonexistent, she realizes. “I didn’t check in with Sarge, and now it’s no outings--or seeing you--for the next three weeks.”

“That’s not stopping you though, is it?”

“Nope.”

Cutter’s back straightens suddenly like someone’s fired rounds in the bunkroom. “ _Yousa_ ,” he starts. She freezes. “ _Who_ are you talking to?”

“Myself.”

“I’ll go,” Ridge says, and signs off as Cutter makes his way over to her.

She has to crane her neck back to properly look into Cutter’s stormy glare. The demand to know is written clearly in his eyes. Yousa slowly, carefully, removes her bucket to meet his gaze. “I’ve stopped talking to them.”

“Was it Ridge?”

“It wasn’t--”

“ _Don’t_ lie to me,” Cutter says, leaning in so close she can feel his breath. Yousa shudders. The action is enough. “Light’s out!” he barks, and it’s not just to her--the entire squad has to go to dressdown and go to sleep.

They all glare at Yousa like it’s her fault, which she guesses it is. She tries her best not to let their looks, their heavy walls of silence bother her, but her mind forces her to realize that she may have to endure this for the next month.

It scares her but doesn’t deter her. The only way she’ll know she’ll make it through this period is if she can escape them as much as possible; it’s for her own sanity.

A second, worse realization hits her like a wall of bricks as she rolls over to go to sleep: the rest of her life could be like this.


	15. Beginnings

Yousa is sure her demerits list breaks a record every time Cutter writes her up. It’s a wonder she hasn’t been sent back to Kamino yet. 

_ It would probably take something more extreme than a messy bunk to do that _ . Even still, she’d stood and watched as her sergeant angrily punched the keys on the datapad with his stylus, writing a demerit for both insubordination and having a messy bunk in the morning. The insubordination ticket was handed down when she argued that she hadn’t even slept in the bunk the previous night--someone else did and didn't clean up.

Cutter doesn’t care and Yousa knows better than to expect him to. But it still hurts--and always will--to see the annoyed stares and hear the aggravated huffs her squad makes whenever she’s punished. 

_ Blip! _ The demerit is filed. Cutter looks at her. “Maybe next time you’ll learn.”

Yousa takes it as permission to leave and is out the door before he can even protest.

OoOoO

The best way to avoid her squad is to go wherever Ridge is--or try to hang out with a member of RAPTOR, all of whom have by now established their own set reputations. 

Yousa catches Grey as he rounds the corner, gaze intent on whatever is on his datapad’s screen. “Sarge,” she greets, but doesn’t snap to attention like she knows she’s meant to. Yousa opts to salute.

“Yousa,” Grey answers back dryly. He’s long since figured out she was lying about not being a sergeant. He must also be aware of her probation and steadily increasing demerits because each greeting is more and more curt.

“Have you seen Angel?” She’d taken a liken to him from the beginning and wanted to see if he was willing to meet up with Ridge as well.

“He should be with Rita.” And he continues walking.

Yousa purses her lips but doesn’t pursue. Angel ends up being in the next hall over, and beams when his eyes land on her. “I heard you’re on probation, Yousa,” he says.

_ Ah. _ “I’m not the best trooper,” is all she says. 

Angel snorts. “Where are you headed? I’ve got stuff to do, but I can make time.”    


Yousa can see the “please say yes” in his eyes. She grins; it’s been a long time since someone was glad to see her. “I’ll do whatever you do.”

The pair picks up Ridge, and they all come up with armor designs for Angel. He’s not so shiny as he was when he first showed up, his armor now a dull, flat white. He shows them the patterns he’s come up with so far: flowers.

“These are nice.” Ridge takes the thin, off-white flimsi in his hands, running his fingers along all the swirls. “These smaller lines will be hard to do, though…” His eyes flick between the flimsi and Yousa’s own armor.

She does the same. Her upper thighs, belt, knees--everywhere is flowers, neatly lined and symmetrical on both sides. She raises an eyebrow at Angel.

He blushes, fiddles with his glove. “I liked your design…” he mutters, not meeting either of their stares. “There’s others…” One hand fidgets through his lavender hair. 

“These are fine,” Yousa says, changing flimsis to look at the helmet designs. There’s a thick black V-shaped line at the crown extending down to the brow. It’s lined with flowers. There are also petals along the cheeks. 

Angel’s chewing his inner cheek, making his lips pucker. Soon enough he would learn to knock off the nervous tick. “Do you like it?”

“I like it!” Ridge pipes up, handing back the flimsi. He’s swatted by Yousa, which he returns.

“I do too. You want us to help you with the prelim lining?” It would take hours just to get all the detailing right, but it is a good way of passing time. 

The trio spends an hour on chalking, tracing blue lines over Angel’s armor while he’s wearing it to make sure everything lines up. Then they go over with the darker grey pencil--that’s two hours. They break to eat. 

It’s in that small session that Yousa realizes Angel has a keen obsession with her that he’s only barely keeping under wraps. Despite their working on  _ his  _ armor, it’s Yousa that gets asked the metric ton’s worth of questions. What she’d originally assumed about him started changing when he’d been “heavily inspired” (as he put it) by her own armor designs.

The three sit down to eat, trading gossip and gripes about other members of the 686th. Ridge complains the most, but he makes it funny with exaggerations and specific voices for different people. 

With a mouth half-filled with food, Angel points his fork at Yousa. His arms and chest are covered in blue-grey penciling. “How come you don't’ like being called ‘sir’?”

She desperately hopes the panic isn’t obvious on her face. She can feel Ridge eyeing her, although he continues his normal eating motions. Yousa places her cup down carefully. “Cause I’m not a sergeant,” she answers, adding a snort to seem casual. Her stomach starts to cramp.

Angel rolls his eyes, waving his fork in the air like he’s swatting flies. “I  _ know _ that, but you just seem to really hate it,” he says, going for another forkful, “it’s like you’re--”

The anxiety and anger get to her faster than she can stop. “Like I’m  _ what?” _

Angel’s chewing goes still. He looks down at his tray, pushing around the food with his fork. “Nothing, nevermind,” he mutters quickly, ducking his head.

“Like  _ what? _ ”

“ _ Nothing _ .”

Yousa sees how truly regretful he is of asking at all. Guilt twists her stomach, but she screws her lips shut instead of apologizing. 

Her mind, like her mouth, races ahead before she can stop it.  _ Cutter’s probably said something _ . Which is true--he’s always saying something, and even worse is that Yousa can never tell  _ what _ it is, just that he  _ has _ . The last time she had any idea, though, was when she was asked whether she would get new haircut ideas from the magazines she’d hoarded. That was when Yousa started hiding them around the ship; Cutter had gone through her things. 

“Let me tell you how Bliz tried to give me a demerit just for fucking  _ standing _ ,” Ridge says, breaking into the heavy silence to trash talk the commander. He goes on without any prompting. 

Yousa can’t focus on his story, though, because she’s stressing about whether or not her sergeant’s been talking to Angel--or any other member of RAPTOR. She starts analyzing and re-analyzing every little interaction she’s had with them: did they stare? Look at her like she was crazy and she just didn’t notice? How long has it been happening?

There’s Grey. He certainly isn’t as excited to be around her like the rest of RAPTOR is.  _ They’re both sergeants, why wouldn’t they talk? _ Yousa swallows hard. 

One thing Angel’s definitely doing now is  _ staring _ . Every time Yousa looks back at him, he looks at Ridge like he wasn’t just scrutinizing every centimeter of her face. 

Ridge is the first one done despite doing most of the talking. He piles his trash on his tray, offering to take theirs. 

The last time Angel looks at her, he runs a hand along his jaw, curls a fist over his chin like he’s trying to hide it. 

OoOoO

That night, Yousa sits up in her cot. She’s on probation, but Cutter and her squad haven’t found her secret hideout yet. Until then, she’d be safe every night. Jukebox’s eagerness to please Cutter isn’t strong enough to track her wherever she goes. 

“Have you always hated being called ‘sir’?” Ridge asks out of the blue, looking at her from his side of the closet. He has a datapad in one hand, stylus equipped in the other. He’s squinting too, must not have his contacts in. 

“As long as I can remember,” she answers, tucking her toes under the blanket. The vent above her has kicked in full gear, but she’s not cold yet. 

“But like…” He finally places the datapad down. “Did you always  _ know  _ you were a woman?” he corrects himself.

It’s the small things that help ease her dysphoria; for a moment, Yousa’s memory flows backward in time to when she’d explained to Ridge that different trans people had different ways of explaining themselves. She doesn’t  _ feel like _ a woman so much as she already  _ is _ one, who just unfortunately is stuck with the wrong body. 

She’s aware of other trans women who prefer “feel like” or “are” or “want to be”. They’re all valid: she has no issue with others who feel differently.

To Ridge, it was confusing as hell, but he was decent enough to respect the distinction. 

“I mean…” she begins, her memory flipping even father back to her years as a cadet. “I do know there was a time I wasn’t  _ aware _ .”

_______

The cadet looks at the drill sergeant standing before him. She’s  _ tall _ \--at least, to him she is--and has brown skin that’s darker than his. Her curly hair is pulled back in a bun. 

Overall, she looks serious and scary to anyone that doesn’t know her. But her voice is sweet and she smiles a lot, always eager to show off her perfectly straight, white teeth.

The cadet is about two and a half chronologically, five biologically. He’s ever so slightly taller than the rest of his squad and he wears that fact with pride. 

Every day, the cadets his age get an hour break between lessons in the middle of the day. On most days he takes a nap, but today he wants to talk to his favorite drill sergeant. 

“What were  _ you  _ like as a kid?” the cadet asks, absolutely mesmerized with Sergeant Sidqiel’s stories. 

“When I was a little girl,” she begins, “I had five brot--”

“What are little girls like, Sarge?” the cadet interrupts, eyes widening in anticipation. According to the Kaminoans, they are all  _ male _ \--boys. The word, however, doesn’t mean anything to him. 

Sergeant Sidqiel doesn’t mind the interruption. “Well, there are lots of kinds of little girls, kid. And they live all over the galaxy the same way boys do.”

“What do they look like when they grow up?” The cadet’s limited environment prevents him from imagining what the rest of the galaxy must look like. He can only see a sea of faces exactly like his, maybe with some Twi’leks thrown in. They’re so far the only species he knows.

Sergeant Sid smiles. “They look like women--sort of like me, for most humans anyways.” 

The cadet takes a step back to examine her, noting the obvious differences between his sergeant and the adult clones that walk around: she’s slightly shorter, and her face is softer. She also has long curly hair and wide hips, with a chest that sticks out. The cadet thinks she’s very pretty.

The cadet cocks his head curiously. “When am I gonna look like you?” If little girls turned into women when they got older, it would only make sense that  _ he  _ actually be  _ she-- _ a little girl, too. The only future she can imagine is one where she looks like Sergeant Sidqiel.

The sergeant, instead of answering the question, blinks. “What do you mean?”

“When will I look like you?”

More blinking, then a face that looks like pity and understanding all at once. “You probably won’t ever look like me, darling.”  _ Darling _ . It’s what she says when she’s revealing bad news, like a bad time or failed test. Sergeant Sid squats down to the cadet’s eye level. “What’s the matter? Have you always felt this way?”

_ I’m a girl _ . She doesn’t like what her sergeant is implying. She shrugs, sad suddenly. “I don’t know...I feel like I should look like you when I grow up. And be called ‘ma’am’ instead of ‘sir’.” And be referred to as “she” instead of “he”, and a couple other things that she can’t fully name at the moment. “I think that...if you used to be a little girl, then I’m one now.” It’s the best way she can explain it.

For a while now, things haven’t felt the same. It started when the batch was first introduced to their drill Sergeant and she had her first thought of “she’s like me”. 

But  _ now _ , now is definitely different.  _ Now  _ is when she she can finally place how she feels: she’s a little girl but has been mislabeled as a boy, even if she looks like one on the outside. It just makes  _ sense _ .

“Kid,” Sergeant Sid says, tipping her chin up with one finger. “As long as you feel like one, you  _ are _ a girl, okay?”

“Okay,” she nods. “But then why can’t I look like you when I’m older?”

The older woman sighs, standing and stretching her back. “That’s just how life is sometimes, kid. You don’t always get what you deserve.”

The cadet is going to ask what she means by that, why life wouldn’t want her to turn into what she is, when the call bell that signals the end of their break sounds. Not wanting to be let for roll call, she runs away, her multitude of questions growing the farther away she gets from her sergeant. 


	16. Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts out heavy, but I *try* to lighten it up at the end.

The first thing the cadet does when she and her squad get the next spare moment--right before bed--is tell them about her new identity.

“Sergeant Sid said I can be a girl, so I am one,” she says, pulling her nightshirt over her head. Her hair is still a little damp from her shower; she smooths down a clump with a fist.

The self-declared squad leader CT-2793 tips his head at her, clearly bemused. “How?”

She shrugs. “By being one. She said I am.”

“But I don’t get it. The Kaminoans say we’re all _male_ ,” he says like he’s correcting her.

“But Sergeant Sidqiel says I’m a _girl_.” She hates the whiny tone that’s come into her voice, but she feels like she might cry.

93 doesn’t look like he wants to fight any more. “I’m think I’m gonna go with what the Kaminoans say,” he responds.

They each crawl into their respective bunks, sealing them against the rest of the barracks. When the cadet crawls into hers, she pulls her blanket over her head.

OoOoO

“You will be men soon,” the drill sergeant--male, tall with dark grey skin and freakishly green eyes--barks, hands practically glued behind his back. He stalks up and down the line of cadets in front of him, staring at each and hoping for eye contact.

By now, they’ve learned it’s better not to do that. They’re chronologically six, biologically twelve, and most are showing signs of puberty. CT-2840 still remembers the conversation she’d had years ago with her former drill sergeant. Every day she does her best to remember, to convince herself that she’s still _she_ despite being called _he_ every day. It’s getting harder and harder.

“Your bodies are _changing_ ,” their new driller, Sergeant Garten, yells, emphasizing the word “changing” like they could possibly forget. “You’ll start to look like your brothers--like _men_ \--until the day you graduate.” For once, he smiles, but it’s neither comforting nor real. 

“This is also when you’ll begin the most rigorous training you’ve seen in your short, short lives,” he continues, spinning sharply on heel and heading back up the line. The cavernous room makes his footsteps echo over their heads. Somewhere off in the distance, thunder rolls. “Most of you will specialize, moving into the classes that you’ve shown proficiency in. And _some_ of you--” he looks directly at her squad’s sergeant, 93, for some reason, “--may even become _ARC Troopers_.”

But she’s long since stopped listening to what Sergeant Garten has to say, tuned out his washed and re-washed words that he repeats nearly every day to each advancing class of cadets. _You will be men soon_ echoes in her head, sticking itself to the forefront of her mind and burning a mark there. Her stomach cramps as she imagines what she’d inevitably end up looking like: broad-shouldered, strong jaw, a flat chest and narrow hips. The cramping gets worse, what feels like a bucket of cold water rushing over her spine.

She’s supposed to be glad that she’s survived the first half of her training. A significant number of cadets don’t. She’s lucky her squad is intact and they’ve gotten away with zero losses in terms of members.

But then she remembers their continued refusal to respect her requests not to be called _he_ , that they would rather ignore her whenever she flinched at the pronouns than do what they _must_ know is right.

Each passing day is an increasing hell. Soon enough, 2840 notices all the changes she doesn’t want--broadening shoulders, voice cracks that betray a deepening vocal tract--and she thinks of everything she can to stop it. She tries sleeping less, but her squad notices too quickly for it to hinder her height. She tries eating less, hoping she can starve her body in the other direction, but she passes out in the middle of a drill one day and knows that plan’s gone, too. Whenever she tries to speak with a higher voice, it cracks and she gives up.

They’re seven when they go through male and female human reproductive systems. 2840 can hardly focus when they’re tested on the male anatomy, barely passes with a 90 percent. They’re then tested on what a uterus is and its function, the normal gestational period for a human baby, and what mammary glands are and where they’re located.

2840 is hyper aware of her breathing, of her position slightly hunched over in front of the computer testing terminal. Every day she’s felt _wrong_ , like her body was spinning out of control and there was nothing she could do to stop it. She never gets used to it, but it’s familiar.

But this is worse than _wrong_ . Something is missing-- _absent_. She’s staring at the internal and external human female anatomy. The timer on the screen is telling her she’s losing precious seconds just sitting there, but she’s lost within her own mind.

_That should be me_ . It should be-- _has_ to be--but it isn’t. It belongs to some faceless woman on a computer screen that she’s meant to be labeling. The greatest sense of dread descends on 2840; she angrily punches in the correct answers, scoring a 100 and moving onto the next lesson.

It’s a woman’s body, a body she can never hope to have.

OoOoO

By the time they’re roughly biologically 18, 2840 has dreamed of throwing herself into the raging seas of Kamino more times than she can count. There’s no way to describe the desire to claw oneself out of their own skin, but her mind certainly tries. Her compulsive arm scratching, even when they’re in armor, gets on 93’s nerves.

She’s named Roco because of how quickly she scaled a wall in a battle simulation, saving her entire squad from failure and possible termination. Rock-o. _How original._

She’s always wanted a name--every clone does--but there’s something _off_ about this that she can’t place.

She’s ashamed for not liking it but doesn’t know how to bring it up with her squad. She’s the first to be named in her group, and it’s an honor that she should cherish as much as she’s supposed to cherish her brothers.

She can’t, though, and the burden of that shame weighs her down as much as the wrongness of her body does.

OoOoO

By the time they’ve graduated and shipped out, Roco only speaks to her squad when absolutely necessary. She can barely stand the sound of her voice. She can’t look in the mirror too long without feeling bad, and showers only increase the feeling.

“How long has he been like that?” One worried voice to another, both on the other side of their quarters, looking at Roco like she’s a sick animal.

_Maybe I am_. Her hands clutch a datapad, but she otherwise hasn’t moved in an hour. They’d all originally thought it was the post-battle blues--some clones get lethargic and depressed after their first fight, but bounce back pretty quickly--except that she’s been going through this for months now with no change.

“...is it the woman thing?” Fortaj whispers to Cutter. Hesitant, like the mere mention could make her explode.

_The woman thing_. That’s what they call it. It’s a “woman thing”, although Roco isn’t sure there’s any other word for it.

Cutter’s suddenly in front of her, beckoning her to stand. “Up, we’re going to Cord.”

Her own voice sounds far away when she speaks. “I’m not sick.”

Cutter rolls his eyes. “ _Clearly_.” And physically hauls her up off the bunk.

They’re in the medbay even though she doesn’t want to be. Roco guesses it doesn’t matter, anyways. She doesn’t have the energy to fight.

They sit her down on a cot. “It’s happening _again_ ,” Cutter whispers, ever-present frustration in his voice. He always gets like that whenever talking about her. It’s always a sneer or a huff or a snapped-out order. The whole squad treats it like it’s normal.

But then why wouldn’t they? It’s been their normal interaction for years.

They’re speaking in voices too low for her to hear. She catches “eating” and “always rude, won’t even look at…” before Cord steps into her field of vision and she’s looking at his chest.

“Roco,” he says, arms by his side. He tips his head to try and meet her eye. She avoids his gaze. “Tell me what’s wrong, kid,” he prompts her.

“ _Answer_ him, Roco,” Cutter snaps from the other side of the triage room.

Cord’s jaw tightens in the way someone’s who’s been interrupted does. “A _moment_ please,” he says, a hardly subtle edge to his words.

Cutter’s jaw tightens too, but he doesn’t dare argue with the medic. He and Fortaj leave.

A light sigh comes from Cord. His odd-colored eyes watch the doors close behind their backs, arms crossed and gaze stern. Grabbing a chair, he wheels it over and seats himself in front Roco. He’s now below her so she can’t avoid him.

“Your sergeant tells me,” he begins, “that you haven’t been feeling well lately.”

She can’t help herself. She snorts. “It’s worse than that, but it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it.”

“Why not?”

Silence on her end.

“Is it something to do with the most recent battle?” Cord asks. His hands remain folded in his lap, face neutral. He blinks up at her.

More silence.

He sighs again. “Your sergeant tells me you haven’t been eating, that you won’t sit too close to anyone.”

Roco only looks at him, mirroring his sitting position. There’s nothing that he can say that will get her to divulge anything. Any admission will just lead to another situation like she has with her squad, she knows.

“Now, I’ll admit, Roco,” he starts, essentially talking to himself at this point, “that I’ve heard some _rumors_ about you.”

Roco’s back stiffens. She struggles to maintain her breathing.

“You take short showers, won’t look at yourself in the mirror,” Cord continues, not giving up whether he’s noticed her shift or not. “That you have certain body image issues, Roco.”

_It’s all true_. She can’t handle staring at her own anatomy for too long and her own face bothers her in a way she can’t describe. She’s not about to tell him this, though.

The tone of his voice changes, catching her attention. “I’m going to go out on a limb here, Roco,” he says. “And I don’t want you to feel ashamed or confused if it turns out to be true.”

She holds her breath.

“Would you say that you felt like a woman?” he asks her.

The fog that had taken her over for months now evaporates. She’s openly staring at the medic, fighting for what to say--if there even _is_ anything to say.

It amazes her that he’s able to discern what her silence means. “You know you’re not wrong for this, right, Roco? Regardless of what anyone tells you, your identity is _real._ Transgender people--”

“What’s that mean?” she cuts in, sitting up straighter. There’s something happening in her chest that she can’t place. It’s not like what she’s used to, it’s... _lighter_. Positive.

“It’s someone like you--you’re sex says one thing, but you’re actually a different gender and your body and mind don’t line up the way they do in others,” Cord explains. “Do you have bad body dysphoria?”

These are all new words to her, but it’s the greatest moment of her life if she’s ever had one. The knowledge that she isn’t alone or wrong in her feelings cuts into half of the _dysphoria_ that she’d been feeling all day.

“Am I…” She swallows. “So there’s others like me?”

“Other _trans women_ , yes,” he affirms.

It’s the best she’s felt in years, possibly her whole life. She asks more questions and he gives her more answers. The thought of being a woman now feels less like a burdensome fact that her squad ignores and more like something she can actually take joy in. Roco’s vision blurs but she refuses to let the tears fall.

“How can I…” she starts, swallows again. Her voice is shaking. “How can I fix myself? Like, is there anything that I can do, or--”

“Some trans woman--and trans men--choose to take hormone replacement therapy to align their bodies with how they view themselves. The changes in each individual varies, but Roco, I want to warn you that--”

“I want it. How do I get it?” She’s not thinking now about what the consequences would be, besides getting the body she wants and not hating herself every minute of every day.

Cord sighs for the third time. “Roco, this is where it’s--”

“I know you have _ways_ of getting things, sir,” she says, her voice low.

Cord’s lips purse at this because she knows he knows it’s true. A select few brothers seem to have permanent battle blues when they’re brought in by Cord, given a medication that’s normally called something like “Vitamin D supplement” or “blood pressure medication”, and within a week or two they’re laughing and almost back to normal.

Roco _knows_ it’s not just normal vitamins those clones are getting, so her satisfaction is limitless when Cord caves and nods his head. “I’ll see what I can do, Roco,” the medic relents.

Something had started to swell the minute she’d told Cord. Her skin flushes with warmth, stomach tingling with the good feelings. Roco has _never_ felt like this, and it takes her a second to identify what the emotion is: peace.

_It won’t last forever_ . But she has it _now_ and that’s what is important.

“But for the meantime,” Cord says, cutting into her reverie. “I want you to come back here every time your dysphoria gets to a level you can’t handle. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

“Wait here.” He leaves abruptly, chair seat spinning in his wake. Roco folds her hands in her lap and waits for the medic to return. He’s back in under two minutes with a datapad in hand, a stylus trapped between his fingers. “Go through this, especially the heading titled ‘coping’,” he says, handing the device to her. “Read _everything_.”

Roco’s eyes scan the page. It’s a holosite entirely dedicated to people like her. Her chest does the swelling thing again and this time she might actually cry. “Thank you, sir,” she whispers, her voice watery. She stands, the ‘pad tucked closely to her chest.

OoOoO

It’s a bitch of a situation, Roco realizes belatedly. Super-heated plasma barely misses the crest of her helmet, but it’s smell works its way through her filters and stings her nose.

She can’t get distracted. “ _Grenade!_ ” she screams, watching the small object hurtle through the air. It lands a few meters from where she is, explodes in a cloud of smoke, dust, and broken grey-brown rock--and body parts. Two troopers are taken with it.

It’s not the worst that she’s seen, but the scent of burnt blood is enough to make her dizzy with nausea.

“Keep it up, Rocco!” Ro barks, jabbing her shoulder with a fist to get her moving agan. He barrels past her, taking cover behind one of the numerous grey boulders hindering their progress.

Under normal circumstances, she would be annoyed, but just like her nausea, Roco can’t afford the emotion in that moment. She ducks down on the other side with him, dodges blazing red laser fire and takes out two B1s and a super battle droid.

Thus far, she’s maintained a pattern. Dart, stop, fire, repeat. It’s kept her alive on this hell of a terrain. The land is littered with mountains, valleys, and rocks of every size imaginable. It would be good if they were on defense and not pushing through from one side of a valley to the other.

But they’re not. They’re clearing the path for _more_ ground troops after them, who would help to take the planet and get the local people the aid they needed.

Briefly, Roco wonders if the boys coming in after them would be 501st. General Dei hates the 501st--rather, she hates their General, whom Roco has never met but has heard enough complaints about from her own general to have formed a solid opinion on him.

General Dei’s twin lightsabers twirl about her in a maddening dance, deflecting laser fire in a way that make each bolt hit the droid it came from. She’s in perfect form--perfect _figure_ , dysphoria tells Yousa--with her legs spread for a wider stance and eyes focused solely ahead. This is the longest she’s stayed concentrated on the front. By now, her general would have gotten distracted by the wounded men tailing at the rear. It must be in her nature to worry about people that can’t help themselves.

Roco guesses that’s why it’s a good thing that Commander Bliz is right by his general’s side, back ramrod straight as if he were impervious to balsterfire and grenades. He alternates pistols--left, right, left, right--with maddening speed, picking off the droids that get too close to the AT-RTs by his side.

Besides the solid blue sky, the lasers and the blue-and-green flash of General Dei’s lightsabers are the only source of color on this forceforsaken planet. It’s dusty and cool, the trees twisted and spindly from dry, waterless soil and too much sunlight. Their needle-thin leaves are too sparse to provide any real shade, and their bony trunks near blend in with the dirt.

_Hate this place_. Roco adds it to her ever growing list of Planets Visited and Hated. Where they are--Grasi VIII--is currently at number three.

A lizard--same brown as the dirt, but with purple specks--skitters across her foot. She nearly shrieks. Grasi VIII moves to number two.

“I see the end!” General Dei shouts, lightsabers spinning even more furiously. “Everyone get back!” They suddenly shut off, find their place back on her belt as her blue palms raise in front of her. Her eyes shut. It’s amazing that the lasers continue to miss her; she’s standing completely still.

“You heard the General!” Commander Bliz barks. There’s nowhere else to hide besides the rocks, so Roco moves over to a new one. From here, she can better see what the Jedi is about to do.

Eyes still closed, General Dei lifts ten--no, _twenty_ \--boulders into the air. The clones that had been behind them scramble to find new cover. The massive stones launch forward with terrifying speed, barreling into the last of the droids and crushing them under their weight. All the laser fire stops. The battle is over.

Roco can _feel_ the sweat pouring over her body, soaking her undersuit. She’s the first to pull her bucket off, glad to feel the cool, dusty breeze on her skin. She’s started to grow her hair out, and a few strands are glued to her forehead while the rest is in a mess, short tail at the back of her head. Most of her hair isn’t long enough for a proper style; she probably looks like a mess, but she doesn’t care.

Her sergeant hands her a water bottle even as he purses his lips at her hair. He’s _politely_ suggested cutting it about eight times. Roco’s answer has always been “When I get the time, Sarge.”

To avoid any unnecessary mention of her hair, Roco carries herself closer to the front of the valley, where General Dei and Commander Bliz have migrated. It’s several degrees cooler here in the trees.

“--coordinate with with Chief Tha’ni, see if we can get the wounded--” She doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation. Fortaj comes up and claps her on the back, distracting her.

“You alright, brother?” he says, chugging his own water flask.

There’s no way to describe how much she hates that word when it’s applied to her-- _brother_ . It’s _wrong_. She’s already tired from running for two miles without stopping. Now, the dysphoria just adds anger and sadness. “Fine,” she bites out.

Fortaj gives her a weird look, but leaves her alone. The sit under the tree in silence. In half an hour, they start moving again, heading farther north to the nearest village.

The 686th is mostly a relief and aid battalion. It isn’t often that they actually get called to battle; they have boxes of food, tents, and medical supplies waiting at the back end of the valley. Half the battalion fights through whatever droids may be dotting the terrain the clear the way for the aid.

“Let’s get a move on, troopers!” Commander Bliz barks. The motors in the AT-RTs begin to whir, and they set out again.

OoOoO

It’s dusk when they come upon the village. It’s small, more like two dozen or so huts and homes packed together on the dusty ground. There’s clearly a path leading to farm fields headed east. Just on the outskirts of the village is a well that looks ready to collapse.

Most of the battalion settles at the mouth of the valley, carrying crates back and forth on speeders they’d packed. White tents with the Republic insignia and black stitching are pitched in a circle around the village.

Roco is aware of just how grimy she is: her boots looks permanently stained tan, and her undersuit is an ashy grey instead of black. When she shifts her vambrace to get a better look, the unexposed fabric is pitch dark. It’s like night and day.

The work is done sooner than they’d planned. There’s a lot of standing around while the General attempts to locate the village chief, who was _supposed_ to have met up with them but is missing.

Roco settles on a rock a bit away from the last home on the outskirts of the village. This is the closest that she’s been to civilians, really--her usual loading and unloading job prevents her from coming into close contact with nonclones.

Pretending to clean and inspect her blaster, Roco drops her bucket on the ground beside her. She pulls a rag out, wiping down as much dust as she can from every small nook and cranny. A dusty group of kids is staring at her openly, huddled together so close their bare feet are practically on top of each other.

Roco stares at her own boots. What did the dirt feel like? She only felt tiles on bare feet before. Every other texture is an enigma to her.

When she looks up again, the kids have moved closer. One small girl--she’s assuming, at least--has a filthy thumb shoved her in mouth. The tallest one has piercing brown eyes that look directly at Roco. “Why are you here?” she calls out without warning, leaning forward to project her voice. She has an accent, and her thin hair brushes her forehead.

Roco blinks, genuinely at a loss for words. Is she even allowed to talk to these kids? There are rules for civilian interaction, and she doesn’t want to give Cutter even more fuel to yell at her.

The girl must assume she doesn’t understand. Bracing her hands on the shoulders of the kids in front of her, she shouts, “Why. Are. You. Here?”

More blinking on her part. “To help,” Roco calls back. Then, “Do you guys need help with something?"

There’s five of them total, and they all rush forward as one unit. Roco realizes now that they’re holding things--food packs that had been given out an hour ago, a small pot, and bowls.

The taller girl speaks again. “Open this-- _please_ ,” she adds, thrusting one of the packs at her chest.

Roco rips open the box, inspecting the contents: a plain-looking can labeled “beans and rice”, a small bottle of water, and crackers. There are small nutrient cubes in it, too. The other two boxes are slightly different, one being dried beef and rice and the other being just vegetables and rice.

“Do you...have something to--” The kids jump into action, a few running into the forest and coming back with armloads of branches. They promptly start a fire, placing the pot on top of the stone they’d placed in the flame’s center. Then, they all look at her.

_What am I doing?_ Roco’s never cooked before in her life, let alone with an audience. With only mild panic, she opens each can and dumps the contents into the pot, adding one of the bottles of water.

Roco recalls the lesson they’d learned as cadets, about the differences between normally-aged children and what they would look like compared to how clones would look. The tallish girl could be nine or ten. The toddler in her lap looks two. The third girl looks five. The two boys with them, who sit closer to each other than the girls, look the same age, but Roco can’t place it.

The nine-year-old occasionally stirs the pot. Nobody says anything. The sky is darkening and Roco wonders when she should get back to her squad to turn in for the night when the girl suddenly speaks. “It’s done.” She dishes everything out equally--including a bowl for Roco.

One rule that gets drilled into her head nonstop by her sergeant is not to eat the food designated for the civilians. Another rule ringing in her head is to always respect the cultures of the civilians they’re with. Would turning down the food be rude? Roco has heard stories of pissed off civilians getting offended their guests turned down even a glass of water.

When Roco doesn’t take the bowl, the girl places it on the dirt in front of her crossed legs, sticks in a fork, and turns to feed the toddler. The fire dances off of all their slim faces.

Eventually, Roco takes a bite. The entire thing is a bowl of food she’s never had before. Rice taste completely different than she’d imagined, as do the beans and the meat. Despite being boiled to hell and back, it’s _good_ , if a bit salty. She can even tell what’s what based on the texture. She’s done sooner than she would have liked.

Now all the kids are looking at her again, as if waiting for something. Annoyed by all the silence, Roco decides it’s her turn to say something. “What’s your name?” she asks the nine year old.

“Porva,” she answers, rolling the ‘r’. “And this is my sister, Toba.” She points to the other girl, then the twin boys. “Azey, Yufen, Yaza. What is yours?” Porva is better spoken than Roco had originally assumed.

“I’m Roco,” she says, not liking how it rolls of her tongue. She fiddles with the fork in her hand.

“What does that mean?”

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

Porva doesn’t look like she believes that, but doesn’t press. Toba plays with her bowl. “Rock-ooo,” she says.

The fire dies down. The kids leave. And Roco is left staring up the maddeningly bright stars, struggling and failing to fight off sleep. Her eyes flutter closed.


	17. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of how Yousa gets her name.

When Roco wakes up again, the sun is higher in the sky than it should be. She realizes she’s slept so long that she missed morning roll call. A shadow falls over her and she’s ready to accept whatever words her sergeant has for her.

“Good morning, soldier,” a rich, deep woman’s voice says. Her neck is adorned with many necklaces, all of which are laced with red, orange, and blue stones. A similar ringlet rests on her greying brow.

But besides that is her _height_. Even sitting on the ground, Roco can tell that this woman is near the same height as any clone, and that she has a strong, slightly stocky build. The bright white smile she gives pulls at her dark skin. “Good morning,” she repeats.

Roco stands up so quickly she gets a head rush. “I-I didn’t mean to--” What even is there to say--besides, of course, that she’s embarrassed her squad and sergeant for falling asleep against a rock and missing both curfew and the morning check.

The woman waves a hand. “No matter. What is your name?” She has the same accent as the kids from the previous night. She stands with a straight back, her arms crossed behind her. The thin wrinkles at her eyes and white strands in her curly black hair betray her age.

“I’m Roco,” she says, unsure what to think of this woman. First it’s kids, now it’s older women. Roco briefly wonders if she will meet teenaged boys soon. 

Again with the smile, like they’re new friends and she’s glad to see her. “Hello, Roco,” she says. “My name is Chief Yousa Weg’edan.”

OoOoO

The sun beats down on all their heads. It’s much warmer here out in the open than it was in the valley the previous day. Roco is tasked with rebuilding and fortifying several of the homes, fixing missing windows and holes in roofs. Despite what protocol calls for, she keeps her bucket off. The kids are much braver now, and they like to look at her hair. They wave whenever they see her.

It’s been two days since the battle, and Roco is desperately trying to learn everything she can about the Chief. Apparently, she isn’t the leader just of this small village--she rules _eight_ of them, and frequently travels between each one to handle the various problems. She has a personal bodyguard but doesn’t look like she even needs one. 

Chief Yousa is also very kind, showing the clones where all the nearby rivers and ponds are that are safe for drinking and bathing. Roco visits one by herself, off-hours so she doesn’t have to deal with dozens of men taking up space and making noise. The water is deeply warm from the intense heat of the sun. She can even see steam rising, hovering above the water’s surface. It’s green-tinted, and small red fish dart around between black rocks. She wades around for a while, floating on her back and washing her hair out as best she can. It’s nearly to her shoulders, but Roco would prefer it longer. Dunking her undersuit in the water as well, she rinses out all the dust and sweat that had built up from yesterday. She temporarily steps out of the water to lay it on a boulder to dry.

She doesn’t know how long she’s there. Roco cleans herself off as best as possible, but there’s no soap. It drives her nuts, but when she steps out she feels _clean_ \--at least, cleaner than she did yesterday. 

Tying her wet hair up, Roco steps out of the water, shaking out her now-dry undersuit; no dust. She smiles. The sun is so hot, her skin is dry after barely two minutes of being out of the water. She runs a palm across her chest: damp, flat. Roco sighs.

She’s been taking the hormone pills Cord got her for two weeks now with no results except for an appetite change. Where she could barely eat before, now she can’t seem to _stop_. Everyone in the 686th has noticed, she knows. Cord told her changes would show in about a _month_.

_Why not_ now _, though?_ But that’s not how any long-term therapy works, he’d told her. She would have to wait.

The sun is starting to burn her shoulders. Absently, she wonders how much browner she will turn before she goes red. 

“So _this_ is where you’ve been, Roco,” Cutter’s voice calls out, slicing through the tranquil air of the pond. He’s just on the edge of the tree line, half hidden in shadows. His arms are crossed angrily over his chest.

A solid lump forms in Roco’s throat. Completely naked and now not enjoying it, she attempts to hide her lower half behind the boulder. 

No other clone is as timid--or ashamed--of nudity as Roco is. She crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to meet Cutter’s eye. He steps out into the sun when she hides herself. “You’ve been avoiding _us_ , Roco,” he says, squinting against the sun’s glare. _Us. Brothers._

Roco purses her lips but keeps quiet. Making like she’s busy, she quickly pulls on her undersuit, the fabric warm against her skin. She avoids her sergeant’s eyes. 

Frustrated that he can’t get her to say anything, he steps closer. Roco is glued to the sandy pond shore. “What have you been _doing_ , Roco?” he sneers as if she’s hiding something.

“I was just bathing. I’m done now.” She scratches her stomach. Her suit’s getting hot. 

Cutter narrows his eyes at her. Another step. They’re on either side of the boulder now. “You’re _shirking_ your duties--”

“I’m on _break,_ sir,” she cuts in, pulling on her armor plates with blinding speed. Anger boils in her stomach. “I’m going back now, if you need me.” And she blows past him. 

Roco’s anger stays with her for a while. Between unloading more crates of food and teaching the villagers how to defend themselves against attack, though, her anger slowly simmers away. 

This is the closest she’s been to civilians. All of their faces are different, naturally, but it’s still something to see _how_ different they can get. She’s never known that people could have eyes so dark or that family members could all have the exact same nose and mouth. 

If Roco had a kid, what would it look like? She can’t come up with anything but a smaller version of herself. 

Porva comes up to her, taps her arm. “Come here, please. My grandmother wants to speak to you.” And she turns and walks briskly away.

Roco follows her through the shadows of broken-down huts, weaving through the homes to the village square. Almost the entire village--roughly one hundred thirty people--is gathered. Roco looks down at the ground, her boots scuffing a fractured white rectangle. The square is laid with tile, and it used to be beautiful, she realizes. The home at the opposite end of where they are is decorated with the same stones that were around Chief Yousa’s neck. That must be her hut.

The chief stands on a small dais, arms behind her back and smiling out at the brown and black heads of her villagers. Her broad shoulders make her look strong. 

_Will I look like that?_ There’s no real foreseeable future for Roco in terms of how she’ll look. She’d absolutely hated the idea of not being shaped like her old Sergeant Sid or General Dei (noticeably curvy and a few centimeters shorter) When she speaks, it’s in a different language. Roco has no idea what she’s saying, but the villagers all look happy.

“You said your grandmother wanted to speak to me?” she whispers, hunching to reach Porva’s height. 

The girl juts her chin at the chief. “That is my grandmother,” she says. She tugs them closer to the front of the crowd. 

Chief Yousa switches to Basic. “My citizens and I would like to thank the Republic for all of the help they have given us,” she announces, her voice rich and clear. Her bright white teeth flash. 

Roco feels guilty to not paying so much attention to the speech, but she’s stressing. There are things she’s meant to be doing, and she would rather avoid Cutter’s misdirected rage as much as possible. 

She spies a few other clones in the crowd. One of them patches into her commlink. “She said they’re going to do something as a thank you,” he says because he knows she’s missed everything.

The crowd throws their hands up in the air, cheering. They clear out quickly, leaving Porva and Roco standing in front of the dais. The Chief steps down. 

Roco doesn’t know whether she should bow or just stand at attention. She opts for the latter, back ramrod straight and arms at her sides. “Your granddaughter said you wanted to speak to me, ma’am?” Was “ma’am” appropriate? Should she have said “chief”?

Chief Yousa nods, smiles. “My baby tells me you helped her cook yesterday,” she says. Porva is clearly embarrassed at the pet name, but she still smiles. Although Porva is much lighter skinned than her grandmother, Roco can see the resemblance between them: they have the same nose and eyebrows.

“I did, ma’am.” The title is starting to sound less and less appropriate. “And they gave me a bowl.” Even though it was a bit weird, it was the best meal of her life. 

“Thank you,” the woman smiles, taking her granddaughter’s shoulders. “And tell your friends thank you from us, as well.”

OoOoO

When they leave, it’s nearly dark out. Half of the village stands at its edge, waving as the dozen or so squads of clones leave on speeders that seem to kick up all the dust on the planet. The night is warm and bugs chirp in the bushes. 

Each speeder is designed to carry two squads of clones and four crates. Roco is sitting towards the end, the tied-down crates blocking her view of the speeders behind them. 

“I heard the _chief_ wanted to speak to you, Roco,” Cutter says above the noise of the engine. He holds his blaster in his lap, and dust sticks to his visor. They’re all covered from head to toe in the stuff.

“She did.” Why does he need to know? Why does he _care_? Roco bites her lip to keep from running her mouth. 

He’s looking at her expectantly. “What did she say?”

“She just said thanks for feeding her grandkid,” Roco says curtly. Cutter’s shoulders stiffen at her tone, but he doesn’t press.

They get to the next village by nightfall, and everyone goes through the motions of unloading supplies and coordinating with the villagers. This area much bigger but similar to the first one they’d been at: rundown homes, a tiled square, and various ponds and streams nearby. The same tents are set up in a ring around the village, flood lamps lighting the work and highlighting little insects flitting around in the air.

That night, Roco sleeps in the tent with her own and another squad. There isn’t much chatter, certainly not between her and her squadmates. It’s so hot she’s laying on top of her sleeping bag instead of in it. She takes her pill, small and white and hopefully a miracle worker. Impulsively, Roco rubs her chest.

Cutter and Ro are watching her. The rest of her squad pretends they aren’t. Two weeks and they should be used to it, but they’re not. Roco rolls over to go to sleep.

The third village they get to is the same situation. It’s early morning in the fourth village when General Dei gets a frantic message from a thin man on a nearly dead speeder bike: droids have come in from the valley and they’ve taken the first village, that they plan to occupy the entire mountain region and meet the battalion wherever they are. 

Then General Dei and Commander Bliz are barking out orders. Tents get dismantled with blazing speed, crates dropped off to make the speeders lighter they. They have more villages to aid, but they can’t take the time to lecture the villagers on being nice and not hoarding everything.

Roco’s squad is the first one out with the General. Dust kicks up in a mad storm behind them, making the sun a mere hazy glow on their heads. Roco checks over her blaster, adrenaline pumping through her blood and making her fingers shaky. 

She’s worried, deeply worried, about Porva and her grandmother. Droids _will_ take villagers hostage. The Separatists have been known to use people as shields to slow down Republic attacks--and then shoot them when their demands aren’t met. 

Roco’s stomach cramps with nausea. She’s never seen dead children before--at least, not dead civilian children. The nausea gets worse and her mouth begins to water. _You don’t know that anything’s even happened yet_ , the sensibility in her says. It’s barely a comforting thought. 

Three speeders loaded with troopers split off to wait for a droid advance at the second village, part of the dust clouds leaving with them. 

They’re coming upon the first village now. Blue and red laser fire criss cross between the homes, and smoke rises from multiple places. As they pull closer, they hear shouting--screaming. 

The General’s ignited her lightsabers and hopped off the speeder before it’s even fully stopped, dashing into the thickest of the smoke-dust cloud. The Commander chases after her, screaming at her to wait. 

Roco is off the speeder, aiming down the length of the blaster for any gold-colored tinnie that decides to show its face plate. Droids--B1s and super battle droids--litter the square, the sun forming short shadows with their broken bodies. Her shaking has stopped. Behind a hut, someone moans. The wind blows the black smoke and brown dust away, clearing some of the air. 

Silence descends. There’s barely the hum of a lightsaber, which gets shut off. Roco’s helmet comlink beeps. She jumps. 

“All clear, boys.” It’s Commander Bliz, sounding a little more annoyed than he normally does. She hears a sigh before the channel clicks off. 

“All clear?” Cutter repeats. 

Roco’s confusion is as enormous as everyone else’s is, she’s sure. She lowers her blaster, still on edge. 

General Dei steps out of the smoke clouds, beaming. Chief Yousa is just behind her, also smiling, though with pain. “Welcome to the party,” she says, blaster in hand. She holds it in her left hand, but it’s handled awkwardly. Roco wonders why until she sees: there’s a _hole_ in her right shoulder. It’s smoking.

Roco looks again at the scattered droid hulls, the moans of pain, the civilians slowly coming out of the shadows. She pieces it together, a split second faster than everyone else. “Did you…?”

Chief Yousa nods, flinches when her shoulder pulls. “I did,” she says. 

Commander Bliz comes up, joins their small group. He holsters his blasters. “You told me you were just about to surrender,” he says, amazement clear in his voice. He pulls his bucket off, squints in the sun. “This is...quite the damage you did here, Chief.”

“We told you that so the droids would let their guard down.” Chief Yousa says, kicking a B1 head clear across the square. It’s lands with a distant _thunk_. “We had no plans to surrender, Commander.”

“And you defended yourselves? Against all the droids?” Roco asks, feeling like she’s speaking out of turn. But she’s thoroughly amazed, impressed--so many words that she can’t think of because this Chief has just led her village of just over one hundred people in a successful _battle_ against who knows how many battle droids.

But the damage the battle did shows, too. One home has a roof that’s caved in, a wide hole blasted in its side. Even more tiles are broken before, small orange, blue, and white pieces scattered across the dusty earth. A wall crumbles. 

“Any casualties?” General Dei asks, surveying the scene.

“Not if you get to the wounded fast enough,” Chief Yousa says, clearly not thinking of herself. The skin around her wound is puffed-up; the whole thing shines in the sunlight, leaking something. 

The general turns first to Roco, mistaking her for Cutter. “You and your squad go find the wounded, bring them here and help take care of them.”

Before Cutter can chime in and correct her, Roco answers. “Yes, sir!” she says, saluting and running off to the person behind the house. Clones snicker in her bucket; she can hear Cutter’s growl among them, too. 

There’s a woman on the ground, one knee up and an arm thrown across her lap. She’s hidden in shadows but Roco can see sweat beading on her brow and lip. Dust is smeared across her clothing and face.

“Ma’am?” Roco asks, tapping her cheek. 

“Mm?” the woman’s head rolls to one side. Her eyes--dark and delirious--flutter open then closed again.

_Uh oh_. “Ma’am? Can you hear me? Nod your head yes if you understand.” Every key point of information from Field Triage 101 runs through her brain. _Assess for any visible wounds. See if victim is responsive. If yes, proceed with field triage. If no, check for pulse and breathing. If neither is present, proceed with CPR._

Well, she’s certainly awake, and she nods in response to Yousa’s work. “ _Treksh_ ,” she mutters, her head rolling to the other side. Her eyes screw up with pain. It’s either her name or a swear.

Roco gently nudges her knee down, then thinks better of it. There’s swelling visible through the woman’s loose green pants. Her arm is swelling too, and she realizes why: two laser holes have burned their way through this woman’s forearm. Neither of them are through-and-through, thankfully. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to lift you now, okay?” The basic medic lesson had said not to ask permission in emergencies because people would often take it as an opportunity to either fight off help or try to walk themselves.

Moving to the woman’s other side, Roco fits her shoulder under one armpit and her arm under the woman’s knees. She’s not very heavy. 

It’s a short few steps back to the square, where the General and some clones are clearing the area up as a makeshift medical center. Speeder engines rumble in the distance; medics coming to help. 

One last sweep with the Force and all the droid shells are cleared away like dead leaves. Someone’s brought what are clearly cots and sleeping mats meant for homes to the square. In total, there’s eight people injured, including the Chief. 

Roco can’t imagine laying in the heat while in pain, but no one complains. Once everyone’s bandaged up and on painkillers, she steps up to the Chief at her cot. “There aren’t any deaths, ma’am,” she says. Under her bucket, a small smile forms. The amount of adoration she feels for this woman is immense, beyond words. “I have to say, what you did was _amazing_.”

“Please, sit,” Chief Yousa says, waving with her good arm to the cot opposite her. Any sweat that had been on her forehead is dry now. She’s used to the heat, clearly, and the dust doesn’t look like it sticks to her the way it does to everyone else. 

Roco obeys, taking up the cot across from the Chief and pulling it a little closer. She folds her hands, knees together, and waits for another order.

“And I do not know if this is rude to ask of you, but…” Chief Yousa motions to Roco’s helmet. “May you please remove that? I want to see your face.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation. Roco removes the helmet, squints now that she doesn’t have the visor protecting her eyes anymore. A curl of her black hair falls on her forehead, but she doesn’t budge to fix it. She wonders what the chief will think of her face.

“What I did--protecting my village, my _people_ \--was exactly what _you_ would have done, sir,” she says. “And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Roco’s lips twist up, but again, she remains silent. 

“Did I say something?” Chief Yousa asks. “Was it the ‘sir’? I apologize.”

Roco doesn’t have the will or the patience to explain her entire situation. “It’s fine,” she says. She looks to the hut the heads the square, it’s yellow roof, red door, and once-colorful walls. “Is that your home?” she asks, noticing how much neater-looking it is compared to all the other huts. 

The Chief nods. “It is. Built it myself when I was a teenager. Most people build their own _shize_ \--homes--here.”

The two keep talking until the sun turns orange and dips below the horizon. Torches are brought out to line the square, casting dancing shadows on the walls of the nearest _shize_. Roco is taught what different words mean in their language, the people’s history and parts of their culture. She also learns that Porva is eleven, not nine--and technically older than her.

In return, Roco trades what stories she can tell about Kamino and the culture that the clones develop--away from the eyes and ears of the Jedi, of course. She filters out most of the violence, though. None of it is anywhere near as interesting as Chief Yousa’s stories.

“You sound like you have had a difficult life,” she says, looking at Roco with sadness. She reaches over suddenly, squeezes her hand. “But you are strong, clearly.”

Roco is genuinely at a loss for what to do. The Chief’s hand is weathered and rough, with well-cut fingernails. She gets an idea suddenly, and it’s a wholly stupid one. “What does your name mean? It’s very nice.”

“Weg’edan is the name of the land where my people come from, but it has the connotation of us being the _protectors_ of that land,” she says, staring at the sky just behind Roco’s head. The stars are out and burn bright white against the black expanse, twinkling endlessly. 

“Do...you choose your name?” Roco’s heart flutters with nervousness. She undoes her hair, ties it up again. It’s a mess. She licks her lips. 

Chief Yousa laughs. “Oh no, those are given to us by our parents. Last names are familial and first names are gifted--although, I _did_ choose my nickname, but I don’t believe that counts.”

Roco can’t imagine having multiple names for her entire life and not having _any_ kind of say in them. She take a short breath. “And what does your first name mean? It sounds nice.”

“It means ‘rock’.”

_Oh_.

“And it means bright. It was given to me because my parents knew I would be a strong, smart person when I got older.”

Roco nods mutely, her next question burning so badly she folds her lips in. 

Chief Yousa beats her to it. “You like my name?”

“Yes.”

“Do you _want_ my name?”

Roco’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. “I admire you for everything you did to save your village--the fact that you were able to fight off so many droids with _no_ deaths, the organization and strength that requires--” She’s rambling now, she can tell. Roco slows down. “It’s...it’s…” She’s at a loss for words. “I have a lot of respect for you.”

Chief Yousa takes a moment to regard Roco. “Stand up, please.”

Roco obeys. Her bucket lays abandoned on the cot. Chief Yousa stands with her; they’re at each other’s eye level. The Chief’s heavy hands grip Roco’s shoulders. “I do not own my name, Roco,” she begins, her lips pulling into a soft smile. “If _you_ feel that your new name should be _Yousa_ , then that is your new name.” Chief Yousa is fully beaming now. “Congratulations on your new birth.” 

Yousa runs her new name over her tongue. _Yah-oo-say._ It’s more syllables than the average clone’s name, but it’s _hers_ It’s hers and it settles in her like it’s always belonged there. 

Both Yousas are smiling at each other now. _Chief_ Yousa, however, pats the other’s cheek. “Go, be happy now.”

The only thing Yousa has to do now is tell Cutter.

OoOoO

The inside of the squad tent is warm. Lamps sit at each of the four corners, making everything glow with a soft yellow light. The two squads inside chat, share stories and jokes--except for Yousa, who is beside herself with anxiety.

She’s changed her name. Names are sacred in their culture; no matter what a clone’s name is, _everyone_ respects it. It’s the most vital part of their individuality. 

But respect doesn’t always mean like. Yousa can already guess what her squads reaction will be: eyerolls, looks of “ _that’s_ you name?” even as their culture says suggestions to change it are rude. 

They all start turning in for the night. Yousa rolls her sleeping bag out, fiddling with the zipper like she’s going to open it. Her pill bottle sits in her lap.

“ _Karfa_ ,” she says in her language. It means “sergeant”. The tent falls silent; Cutter’s eyes are boring into her shoulder, but for once it’s not malice--it’s surprise. 

Everyone she hasn’t addressed makes like they’re getting ready for bed, turning their backs to afford whatever privacy they can. Their language is reserved for serious conversations whose weight can’t be properly expressed in Basic. She knows they’ll all tune their conversation out.

“ _Te’an vet_?” _What’s wrong?_ The concern in Cutter’s voice is jarring, an emotion Yousa’s unused to coming from him. 

For the second time that night, Yousa’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. Cutter turns to fully face her, shifts closer over the sleeping bags strewn about. He doesn’t say anything. Yousa sits still for a moment, pretends that their relationship is actually like this; like they can talk and Cutter actually cares and her squad respects her. 

Yousa takes a breath, speaks. She tells him about her conversation with Chief Yousa, goes over the details of her battle and how it made Yousa feel, seeing a woman like her do such a thing as win a battle. 

Cutter is quiet for the whole time--quiet but entirely confused, she can tell. He’s kneeling before her with his hands on his knees. Yousa crosses her legs, avoids his eyes.

“ _I’m changing my name,”_ she says in their language. 

“ _Can I ask why?”_ If he wasn’t surprised before, he is now. He doesn’t ask what she’s changing it to.

Yousa runs an agitated hand through her hair, ruins her carefully-made bun. The pill bottle lays by her side. _“It’s--it’s just something I’ve discovered about myself.”_

_“...is it the woman thing?”_ A little bit of that distaste comes back, but it’s gone in an instant. It’s taboo in their culture to respond in such a way. 

_“Yes_ ,” is all she can say. 

_“We named you_ ,” Cutter says, reminder her of the day so many months ago when she basically saved their lives. _“I...didn’t realize that was how you felt about it.”_

The last thing she wants is to start feeling guilty about something she can’t control. _“It’s how I feel, Cutter._ ”

_“What are you changing your name to?”_

_“Yousa.”_ Yah-oo-say. The mere pronunciation creates a small sense of elation in her. 

“The Chief’s name?” he says in Basic, surprised. She’s not upset at his surprise, though--that, she was expecting. “Is...that allowed?”

“She said I could; that’s what part of our conversation was about.” Yousa chews her inner lip, finally meeting Cutter’s eyes. 

He doesn’t like it; she can _see_ it. “It’s just that it’s…” he says, stops himself, refuses to go further. If he pushes too far, it’s taboo.

“It’s what?” Yousa demands anyways.

“I mean, it’s--it’s a woman’s name is the prob--the iss--,” he sighs. “It’s noticeably feminine.”

“Yousa” is a _very_ feminine name, she’s aware. Her hands ball into fists on her knees. It is also _hers._ “It’s my name now.”

“I know.” He won’t look at her. 

“It’s what you’re calling me now, Cutter,” Yousa says, a hard edge to her voice. Cutter stiffens. The usual anger is back. 

He switches back to their language. _“There is no other name, Yousa.”_

It’s done. Yousa sighs, all of her anxiety spilling onto the tent floor. She takes her pill, swallows, and rolls over for the night. 


End file.
